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MARK  LEE  LUTHER 


Bookjofmll  Publi«h«e 
COLE  BOOK  CO., 
69  Whitehall  St., 


THE   CRUCIBLE 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK    •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO 
ATLANTA   •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


From  that  dear  shelter  she,   too,  foresaw  a  kindlier  tuture. 


THE    CRUCIBLE 


BY 

MARK    LEE    LUTHER 

Author  of  "  The  Henchman"  "  The  Mastery" 
etc.,  etc. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
ROSE  CECIL  O'NEILL 


KTefo  gorit 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1907 

All  rigbtt  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1907, 
BY  INTERNATIONAL  MAGAZINE  COMPANY. 

COPYRIGHT,  1907, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  October,  1907. 


XorfaooB 

J.  8.  Cashing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


E.  M.  R. 

AN  OPTIMIST 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  From  that  dear  shelter  she,  too,  foresaw  a  kindlier  future  " 

Frontispiece 

OPPOSITE  PAGE 
"  '  A  dimple  will  be  a  great  handicap  in  my  life '  "    .          .        40 

"And,  among  them,  Jean"  .....        56 

"'Do  you  know  each  other?'  "  .  .  .  .  .178 
"  Her  knight  of  the  forest  stood  before  her  "  .  .  .196 
"She  was  scoring"  .......  254 


vii 


THE   CRUCIBLE 


THE  girl  heard  the  key  rasp  in  the  lock  and  the 
door  open,  but  she  did  not  turn. 

"When  I  enter  the  room,  rise,"  directed  an  even 
voice. 

The  new  inmate  obeyed  disdainfully.  The  super- 
intendent, a  middle-aged  woman  of  precise  bearing 
and  crisp  accent,  took  possession  of  the  one  chair, 
and  flattened  a  note-book  across  an  angular  knee. 

"Is  Jean  Fanshaw  your  full  name  ?"  she  began. 

"I'm  called  Jack/' 

"Jack!"  The  descending  pencil  paused  disap- 
provingly in  mid-air.  "You  were  committed  to 
the  refuge  as  Jean." 

"  Everybody  calls  me  Jack,"  persisted  the  girl 
shortly  —  "everybody." 

"  Does  your  mother  ? " 

Her  face  clouded.  "No,"  she  admitted;  "but 
my  father  did.  He  began  it,  and  I  like  it.  Why 
isn't  it  as  good  as  Jean  ?  Both  come  from  John." 

"It  is  not  womanly,"  said  Miss  Blair,  as  one 
having  authority.  "Women  of  refinement  don't 
adopt  men's  names." 


2  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"How  about  George  Eliot?"  Jean  promptly 
countered.  "And  that  other  George  —  the  French 
woman  ?" 

The  superintendent  battled  to  mask  her  astonish- 
ment. Case-hardened  by  a  dozen  years^  close  con- 
tact with  moral  perverts,  budding  criminals,  and 
the  half-insane,  she  plumed  herself  that  she  was 
not  easily  taken  off  her  guard.  But  the  unexpected 
had  befallen.  The  newcomer  had  given  her  a  sen- 
sation, and  moreover  she  knew  it.  Jean  Fanshaw's 
dark  eyes  exulted  insolently  in  her  victory. 

Miss  Blair  took  formal  refuge  in  her  notes. 
"Birthplace?"  she  continued. 

"Shawnee  Springs." 

"Age?" 

"Seventeen,  two  months  ago — September  tenth." 

The  official  jotted  "American"  under  the  heading 
of  nationality,  and  said,  — 

"Where  were  your  parents  born  ?" 

"Father  hailed  from  the  South  —  from  Virginia." 
Her  face  lighted  curiously.  "His  people  once 
owned  slaves." 

"And  your  mother?" 

The  girl's  interest  in  her  ancestry  flagged.  "Pure 
Shawnee  Springs."  She  flung  off  the  characteriza- 
tion with  scorn.  "Pure,  unadulterated  Shawnee 
Springs." 

But  the  superintendent  was  now  on  the  alert  for 
the  unexpected.  "I  want  plain  answers,"  she  ad- 
monished. "  What  has  been  your  religious  training  ? " 


THE   CRUCIBLE  3 

"Mixed.  Father  was  an  Episcopalian,  I  think, 
but  he  wasn't  much  of  a  churchgoer;  he  preferred 
the  woods.  Mother's  a  Baptist." 

"And  you?" 

"I  don't  know  what  I  am.  I  guess  God  isn't 
interested  in  my  case." 

The  official  retreated  upon  her  final  routine 
question. 

"Education?" 

"I  was  in  my  last  year  at  high  school  when"  — 
her  cheek  flamed  —  "when  this  happened.'* 

Miss  Blair  construed  the  flush  as  a  hopeful 
sign.  "  You  may  sit  down,  Jean,"  she  said,  indi- 
cating the  narrow  iron  bed.  "Let  me  see  your 
knitting." 

The  girl  handed  over  the  task  work  which  had 
made  isolation  doubly  odious. 

The  superintendent  pursed  her  thin  lips. 

"Have  you  never  set  up  a  stocking  before?"  she 
asked. 

"No." 

"Can  you  sew?" 

"No." 

"Or  cook?" 

"No." 

"No,  Miss  Blair,'  would  be  more  courteous. 
Have  you  been  taught  any  form  of  housework 
whatsoever  ?" 

Jean  looked  her  fathomless  contempt.  "We  kept 
help  for  such  drudgery,"  she  explained  briefly. 


4  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"You  must  learn,  then.  They  are  things  which 
every  woman  should  know." 

"I  don't  care  to  learn  the  things  every  woman 
should  know.  I  hate  women's  work.  I  hate  women, 
too,  and  their  namby-pamby  ways.  I'd  give  ten 
years  of  my  life  to  be  a  man." 

Her  listener  contrasted  Jean  Fanshaw's  person 
with  her  ideas.  Even  the  flesh-mortifying,  blue- 
and-white-check  uniform  of  the  refuge  became  the 
girl.  Immature  in  outline,  she  was  opulent  in 
promise.  Her  features  held  no  hint  of  masculinity; 
the  mouth,  chin,  eyes  —  above  all,  the  defiant  eyes 
—  were  hopelessly  feminine.  Miss  Blair's  own  pale 
glance  returned  again  and  again  upon  those  eyes. 
They  made  her  think  of  pools  which  forest  leaves 
have  dyed.  The  brows  were  brown,  too,  and  deli- 
cately lined,  but  the  thick  rope  of  hair,  which  fell 
quite  to  the  girl's  hips,  was  fair.  The  other  woman 
touched  the  splendid  braid  covetously. 

"You can't escapeyour sex," she  said.    "Don't try." 

"But  I  wasn't  meant  for  a  girl.  They  didn't 
want  one  when  I  was  born.  They'd  had  one  girl, 
my  sister  Amelia,  and  they  counted  on  a  boy.  They 
felt  sure  of  it.  Why,  they'd  even  picked  out  his 
name.  It  was  to  be  John,  after  my  father.  Then 
I  came." 

"Nature  knew  best." 

Jean  gave  a  mirthless  laugh.  "Nature  made  a 
botch,"  she  retorted.  "What  business  has  a  boy 
with  the  body  of  a  girl  ?" 


THE   CRUCIBLE  5 

The  superintendent  lost  patience.  "You  must 
rid  yourself  of  this  nonsense,"  she  declared  firmly, 
and  said  again,  "You  can't  escape  your  sex." 

"I  will  if  I  can." 

"But  why?" 

"  Because  this  is  a  man's  world.  Because  I  mean 
to  do  the  things  men  do." 

"  For  some  little  time  to  come  you'll  occupy  your- 
self with  the  things  women  do." 

Jean's  long  fingers  clenched  at  the  reminder. 
The  hot  color  flooded  back.  "Oh,  the  shame  of 
it!"  she  cried  passionately.  "The  wicked  injus- 
tice of  it!" 

"You  did  wrong.     This  is  your  punishment." 

" My  punishment !"  flashed  the  girl.  "My  pun- 
ishment! Could  they  punish  me  in  no  other  way 
than  this  ?  Am  I  a  Stella  Wilkes,  a  common  creature 
of  the  streets,  who  — " 

The  superintendent  raised  her  hand.  "Don't  go 
into  that,"  she  warned  peremptorily.  "If  you  knew 
Stella  Wilkes  in  Shawnee  Springs  — " 

"I  know  her!" 

"  Don't  interrupt  me.  I  repeat,  if  you  know  any- 
thing of  Stella's  record,  keep  it  to  yourself.  A  girl 
turns  over  a  new  leaf  when  she  enters  here.  Her 
past  is  behind  her.  And  let  me  caution  you  per- 
sonally not  to  speak  of  your  life  to  any  one  but  my- 
self. Remember  that.  Make  confidences  to  no  one 
—  not  even  the  matrons  —  to  no  one  except  me." 

Jean  searched  the  enigmatic  face  hungrily.     "I 


6  THE   CRUCIBLE 

doubt  if  you'd  care  to  listen,"  she  stated  simply;  "or 
whether,  if  you  did  listen,  you'd  believe!" 

Something  in  her  tone  penetrated  Miss  Blair's 
official  crust.  "My  dear!"  she  protested. 

The  girl  was  silent  a  moment.  Then,  point- 
blank,  "Do  you  think  a  mother  can  hate  her 
child  ?"  she  asked. 

The  superintendent,  by  virtue  of  her  office,  felt 
constrained  to  take  up  the  cudgels  for  humanity. 
"Of  course  not,"  she  responded. 

"My  mother  hates  me  sometimes." 

"Nonsense!" 

"At  other  times  it's  only  dislike,"  Jean  went  on 
impassively.  "It's  always  been  so.  Dad  got  over 
the  fact  that  I  was  a  girl.  He  said  he  would  call  me 
his  boy,  anyhow.  That's  where  the  'Jack'  came 
from.  But  mother  —  she  was  different.  I  dare  say 
if  I'd  been  all  girl,  like  Amelia,  she  could  have  stood 
me.  She  was  forever  holding  up  Amelia  as  a  pat- 
tern. Amelia  would  get  a  hundred  per  cent,  in  that 
quiz  you  put  me  through.  Amelia  can  sew;  Amelia 
can  embroider;  Amelia  can  make  tea-biscuit  and 
angel-cake." 

"And  what  were  you  doing  while  your  sister  was 
improving  her  opportunities  ?" 

"Improving  mine,"  came  back  Jean,  with  con- 
viction. "Why  didn't  you  ask  me  if  I  could  swim, 
and  box,  and  shoot,  and  hold  my  own  with  a  gamy 
pickerel  or  trout  ?" 

"Did  your  father  teach  you  those  things  ?" 


THE   CRUCIBLE  7 

"Some  of  them." 

"And  to  affect  mannish  clothes,  and  smoke 
cigarettes  with  your  feet  on  the  table  ?" 

Jean  flaunted  an  unregenerate  grin.  "You've 
heard  more  than  you  let  on,  I  guess.  But  you 
wouldn't  have  asked  that  last  question  if  you'd 
known  him.  He  wasn't  that  sort.  I  did  those 
things  after  —  after  he  went.  I  didn't  really  care 
for  the  cigarettes;  I  mainly  wanted  to  shock  that 
sheep,  Amelia.  Besides,  I  only  smoked  in  my  own 
room.  I  had  a  bully  room  —  all  posters  and  foils 
and  guns.  That  reminds  me,"  she  added,  with  a 
quick  change  of  tone.  "That  woman  who  comes  in 
here  —  the  matron  —  took  something  of  mine.  I 
want  it  back." 

"What  was  it?" 

"A  little  clay  bust  my  father  made." 

"Was  he  a  sculptor?"  • 

"No,  a  druggist;  but  he  could  model.  You'll 
make  her  give  it  back?" 

"Is  it  the  likeness  of  a  man?" 

"Yes,  of  dad." 

"The  matron  was  right.  We  allow  no  men's  pic- 
tures in  the  girls'  rooms,  and  the  rule  would  apply 
here." 

Incredulity,  resentment,  impotent  anger  drove  in 
rapid  sequence  across  the  too  mobile  face.  "But 
it's  dad!"  she  cried.  "Why,  he  did  it  for  me!  I 
never  had  a  picture.  Don't  keep  it  from  me;  it's 
only  dad." 


8  THE   CRUCIBLE 

The  official  shook  her  head  in  stanch  conviction 
of  the  sacredness  of  red  tape.  "The  rule  is  for 
everybody.  Furthermore,  you  must  not  refer  to 
men  in  your  letters  home.  If  you  make  such  refer- 
ences, they  will  be  erased.  Nor  will  they  be  per- 
mitted in  any  letter  you  may  receive  from  your 
family." 

"You'll  read  my  letters?" 

"Certainly." 

Jean  silently  digested  this  fresh  indignity.  "Then 
I'll  never  write,"  she  declared. 

Miss  Blair  waived  discussion.  "Never  mind  about 
the  rules  now,  my  girl,"  she  returned,  not  unkindly. 
"You  will  appreciate  the  reasons  for  them  in  time. 
Go  on  with  your  story.  Tell  me  more  of  your  home 
life." 

"It  wasn't  a  home  —  at  least,  not  for  me.  I 
didn't  fit  into  it  anywhere  after  dad  went.  Mother 
couldn't  understand  me.  She  said  I  took  after 
the  Fanshaws,  not  her  folks,  the  Tuttles.  Thank 
heaven  for  that!  I  never  understood  her,  it's 
certain.  When  she  wasn't  flint,  she  was  mush. 
Her  softness  was  all  for  Amelia,  though.  They  were 
hand  and  glove  in  everything,  and  always  lined  up 
together  in  our  family  rows.  I  think  that  was  at  the 
bottom  of  half  the  trouble.  If  mother'd  only  let  us 
girls  scrap  things  out  by  ourselves,  we'd  have  rubbed 
along  somehow,  and  probably  been  better  friends. 
But  she  couldn't  do  it.  She  had  to  take  a  hand  for 
Saint  Amelia,  as  a  matter  of  course.  I  can't  re- 


THE   CRUCIBLE  9 

member  when  it  wasn't  so,  from  the  days  when  we 
fought  over  our  toys  till  the  last  big  rumpus  of 
all." 

"And  that  last  affair?"  prompted  her  inquisitor. 
"What  led  to  it?" 

"A  box  social." 

"A  box  social!" 

"Never  heard  of  one  ?  You're  not  country-bred,  I 
guess.  Shawnee  Springs  pretends  to  be  awfully  citi- 
fied when  the  summer  cottagers  are  in  town,  but 
it's  rural  enough  the  rest  of  the  year.  Box  socials 
are  all  the  rage.  You  see,  the  girls  all  bring  boxes, 
packed  with  supper  for  two,  which  are  auctioned  off 
to  the  highest  bidder.  The  fellows  aren't  supposed 
to  know  whose  box  they're  buying.  Anyhow,  that's 
the  theory.  I  thought  it  ought  to  be  the  practice, 
too,  and  when  I  found  that  Amelia  had  fixed  things 
beforehand  with  Harry  Fargo,  I  planned  a  little  sur- 
prise by  changing  the  wrapper.  Harry  bid  in  the 
box  she  signalled  him  to  buy,  and  drew  his  own 
little  sister  for  a  partner.  The  man  who  bought 
Amelia's  was  a  bald-headed  old  widower  she  couldn't 
bear.  It  wasn't  much  of  a  joke,  I  dare  say,  and 
Amelia  couldn't  see  the  point  of  it  at  all.  She  told 
me  she  hated  me,  right  before  Harry  Fargo  himself, 
and  after  we  came  home  she  followed  me  up  to  my 
room  to  say  it  again." 

An  unofficial  smile  tempered  Miss  Blair's  aus- 
terity. "But  go  on,"  she  said,  with  an  access  of  for- 
mality by  way  of  atonement  for  her  lapse. 


io  THE   CRUCIBLE 

Jean's  own  quick-changing  eyes  gleamed  over  the 
memory  of  Amelia's  undoing,  but  it  was  for  an  in- 
stant only.  "It  was  a  dear  joke  for  me,"  she  con- 
tinued soberly.  "Amelia  was  sore.  She  had  a  nasty 
way  of  saying  things,  for  all  her  angel-food,  and  she 
hadn't  lost  her  voice  that  night,  I  can  assure  you. 
I  said  I  was  sorry  for  playing  her  the  trick,  but 
she  kept  harping  on  it  like  a  phonograph,  and  one 
of  our  regular  shindies  followed.  It  would  have 
ended  in  talk,  like  all  the  rest,  if  mother  hadn't 
chimed  in,  but  when  they  both  tuned  up  with  the 
same  old  song  about  my  being  a  hoiden  and  a  family 
disgrace,  why,  I  got  mad  myself,  and  told  them  to 
clear  out.  When  they  didn't  budge,  I  grabbed  a 
Cuban  machete  that  a  Rough  Rider  friend  had  given 
me,  and  went  for  them." 

"What  did  you  mean  to  do  ?" 

"Only  frighten  them.  I  never  knew  till  afterward 
that  I'd  really  pinked  Amelia's  arm.  Of  course,  I 
didn't  mean  to  do  anything  like  that.  I  swear  it." 

"And  then?" 

"Then  mother  lost  her  head  completely.  She 
tore  shrieking  downstairs,  Amelia  after  her,  and  both 
of  them  took  to  the  street.  First  I  knew,  in  came 
the  officer.  The  rest  seems  a  kind  of  nightmare  to 
me  —  the  arrest,  the  station-house  cell,  the  blunder- 
ing old  fool  of  a  magistrate  who  sent  me  here.  He 
said  he'd  had  his  eye  on  me  for  a  long  time,  and  that 
I  was  incorrigible.  Incorrigible !  What  did  he  know 
about  it  ?  He  couldn't  even  pronounce  the  word ! 


THE   CRUCIBLE  11 

What  business  has  such  a  man  with  power  to  spoil 
a  girl's  life !  He  was  only  a  seedy  failure  as  a  law- 
yer, and  got  his  job  through  politics.  That's  what 
sent  me  here  —  politics  !  Mother  never  intended 
matters  to  go  this  far.  I  know  she  didn't,  though 
she  doesn't  admit  it.  She  wanted  to  frighten  me, 
but  things  slipped  out  of  her  hands.  Think  of  it ! 
Three  years  among  the  Stella  Wilkeses  for  a  joke ! 
My  God,  I  can't  believe  it !  I  must  be  dreaming 
still." 

The  superintendent  ransacked  her  stock  of  homi- 
lies for  an  adequate  response,  but  nothing  suggested 
itself.  Jean  Fanshaw's  case  refused  to  fit  the  routine 
pigeonholes.  She  could  only  remind  the  girl  that  it 
lay  with  herself  to  decide  whether  she  would  serve 
out  her  full  term. 

"It  is  possible  to  earn  your  parole  in  a  year  and  a 
half,  remember,"  she  charged,  rising.  "Bear  that 
constantly  in  mind." 

Jean  seemed  not  to  hear.  "The  shame  of  it!" 
she  repeated  numbly.  "The  disgrace  of  it!  I  shall 
never  live  it  down." 

She  brooded  long  at  her  window  when  her  visitor 
had  gone,  her  wrongs  rankling  afresh  from  their 
rehearsal.  The  two  weeks'  isolation  had  begun  to 
tell  upon  the  nerves  which  she  had  prided  herself 
were  of  stoic  fibre.  Human  companionship  she  did 
not  want.  She  had  not  welcomed  the  superinten- 
dent's coming,  nor  the  physician's  before  her;  and,  if 
contempt  might  slay,  the  drear  files  of  her  fellow- 


12  THE   CRUCIBLE 

inmates  which  traversed  the  snow-bound  paths  below 
would  have  withered  in  their  tracks.  It  was  the  open 
she  craved,  and  the  daily  walks  under  the  close  sur- 
veillance of  a  taciturn  matron  had  but  whetted  her 
great  desire. 

She  had  conned  the  desolate  prospect  till  she 
felt  she  knew  its  every  hateful  inch.  Yonder,  at 
the  head  of  the  long  quadrangle,  was  the  admin- 
istration building,  whither  Miss  Blair  had  taken  her 
precise  way.  Flanking  the  court,  ran  the  red  brick 
cottages  —  each  a  replica  of  its  unlovely  neighbor, 
offspring  all  of  a  single  architectural  indiscretion 
—  one  of  which  she  supposed  incuriously  would 
house  her  in  the  lost  years  of  her  durance.  Quite 
at  the  end,  closing  the  group,  loomed  the  prison, 
gaunt,  iron-barred,  sinister  in  the  gathering  dusk. 

This  last  structure  had  come  almost  to  seem  a  sen- 
sate  creature,  a  grotesque,  sprawling  monster,  with 
half-human  lineaments  which  nightfall  blurred  and 
modelled.  Now,  as  she  watched,  the  central  door, 
that  formed  its  mouth,  gaped  wide  and  emitted 
one  of  the  double  files  of  erring  femininity  which 
were  continually  passing  and  repassing.  She  knew 
that  there  were  degrees  of  badness  here,  and  rea- 
soned that  these  from  the  monster's  jaws  must  be 
the  more  refractory,  but  they  appeared  to  her  no 
worse  than  the  others.  Indeed,  as  looks  went,  they 
were,  on  the  whole,  superior.  She  felt  no  pity  for 
them,  only  measureless  disgust  —  disgust  for  the 
brazen  and  the  dispirited  alike;  all  were  despicable. 


THE   CRUCIBLE  13 

Her  pity  was  for  herself  that  she  must  breathe  the 
common  air. 

Hitherto  she  had  not  separated  them  one  from  the 
other.  This  time,  however,  she  passed  them  in 
review  —  the  hard,  the  vicious,  the  frankly  animal, 
the  merely  weak;  till,  coming  last  of  all  upon  a  bru- 
nette face  of  garish  good  looks,  she  shrank  abruptly 
from  the  window.  For  the  first  time  since  her 
arrival  she  glimpsed  the  girl  whose  name  had  been  a 
byword  in  Shawnee  Springs,  the  being  who  at  once 
symbolized  and  made  concrete  to  Jean  the  bald, 
terrible  fact  of  her  degradation.  Till  now  she  had 
gone  through  all  things  dry-eyed  —  manfully,  as 
she  would  have  chosen  to  say  —  but  the  sight  of 
Stella  Wilkes  plumbed  emotional  deeps  in  the 
womanhood  she  would  have  forsworn,  and  she  flung 
herself,  sobbing,  upon  her  bed. 


II 

So  the  little  secretary  found  her.  Miss  Archer 
was  born  under  a  more  benignant  star  than  her 
superior,  and  habitually  tried  in  such  quiet  ways  as 
a  wise  grand  vizier  may  to  leaven  the  ruling  autoc- 
racy with  kindness.  She  told  Jean  that  she  had  come 
to  transfer  her  to  the  regular  routine,  bade  her  bathe 
her  eyes,  and  made  cheerful  talk  while  she  collected 
her  few  possessions.  They  crossed  the  quadrangle 
in  the  wintry  dusk,  turning  in  at  a  cottage  near  the 
prison  just  as  Jean  was  gripped  by  the  fear  that  the 
monster  itself  would  engulf  her. 

At  the  door-sill  she  felt  a  hand  slip  into  hers. 

"Be  willing,  dearie,  and  seem  as  cheerful  as  you 
can,"  counseled  her  guide.  "I'm  anxious  to  have 
you  make  a  good  first  impression  here  in  Cottage 
No.  6.  It's  immensely  important  that  you  stand  well 
with  your  matron.  Everything  depends  upon  it." 

Jean  melted  before  her  friendliness. 

"I  wish  I  could  be  under  you,"  she  said  impul- 
sively. "This  place  wouldn't  seem  —  what  it  is." 

She  framed  this  wish  anew  when  she  faced  the 
matron  herself  in  the  bleak  cleanliness  of  the  hall. 
This  person  was  a  variant  of  the  superintendent's 
impersonal  type  and  a  slavish  plagiarist  of  her 

14 


THE   CRUCIBLE  15 

mannerisms.  A  bundle  of  prejudices,  she  believed 
herself  dowered  with  superhuman  impartiality;  and 
now,  in  muddle-headed  pursuit  of  this  notion,  she 
promptly  decided  that  an  offender  so  plainly  superior 
to  the  average  ought  in  the  fitness  of  things  to  receive 
less  consideration  than  the  average.  Jean  accord- 
ingly went  smarting  to  her  room. 

Happily  she  was  given  little  time  to  think  about  it. 
The  incessant  round  which,  day  in  and  day  out,  was 
to  fill  her  waking  hours,  caught  her  into  its  mechan- 
ism. A  querulous  bell  tapped  somewhere,  her  door, 
in  common  with  every  one  in  the  corridor,  was  un- 
locked, and  she  merged  with  a  uniformed  file  which, 
without  words,  shuffled  down  two  flights  of  stairs 
and  ranged  itself  about  the  tables  of  a  desolate  din- 
ing-hall.  Whereupon  the  matron,  who  had  taken 
her  station  at  a  small  table  laid  for  herself  and 
another  black-garbed  official,  raised  her  thin  voice 
and  repeated, 

"The  eyes  of  all  wait  upon  Thee,  O  Lord  !" 
An   unintelligible   mumbling  followed,   which   by 
dint   of  strained   listening  at   many   ensuing  meals 
Jean  finally  translated, 

"And  Thou  givest  them  their  meat  in  due  season." 
Thirty  odd  chairs  forthwith  scraped  the  bare  floor. 
Thirty  odd  appetites  attacked  the  food  heaped  in 
coarse  earthenware  upon  the  oilcloth.  Jean  fasted. 
Hash  she  despised;  macaroni  stood  scarcely  higher 
in  her  regard;  while  tea  was  an  essentially  feminine 
beverage  which  of  principle  she  had  long  eschewed. 


16  THE   CRUCIBLE 

This  eliminated  everything  save  bread,  and  it 
chanced  that  her  share  of  this  staple  was  of  the 
maiden  baking  of  a  young  person  whose  talents  till 
lately  had  been  exclusively  devoted  to  picking 
pockets. 

Jean  surveyed  the  room.  It  shared  the  naked 
dreariness  of  the  corridors;  not  a  picture  enlivened  its 
terra-cotta  wastes  of  wall.  Another  long  table, 
twin  in  all  respects  to  her  own,  occupied  with  hers 
the  greater  part  of  the  floor  space;  but  there  re- 
mained room  near  the  door  for  two  smaller  tables, 
the  matron's,  which  she  had  remarked  on  entering, 
and  one  occupied  by  five  favorites  of  fortune,  whose 
uniform,  though  similar  to  the  general  in  color,  re- 
sembled a  trained  nurse's  in  its  striping,  and  was 
further  distinguished  by  white  collars  and  cuffs. 
This  table,  like  the  matron's,  was  covered  with  a 
white  cloth  and  boasted  a  small  jardiniere  of  ferns. 

The  matron's  voice  was  again  heard. 

"You  may  talk  now,  girls,"  she  announced. 
"Quietly,  remember." 

A  score  of  tongues  were  instantly  loosed.  The 
newcomer  was  astounded.  How  had  they  the  heart 
to  speak  ?  It  was  strange  table-talk,  curiously 
limited  in  range,  straying  little  beyond  the  narrow 
confines  of  the  reformatory  world.  A  girl  opposite 
said:  "One  year  and  five  months  more!"  and  set 
afoot  a  spirited  comparison  which  crisscrossed  the 
board  from  end  to  end  and  reached  its  climax  in  the 
enviable  lot  of  her  whose  release  was  due  in  thirty- 


THE   CRUCIBLE  17 

seven  days,  jean  observed  that  the  head  of  the  first 
speaker  was  lop-sided;  its  neighbor  was  narrow  in 
the  forehead;  a  third,  two  places  beyond,  had 
peculiar  teeth.  Nearly  all,  in  fact,  were  stamped 
with  some  queerness,  either  natural  or  artificially 
imposed  by  an  institutional  regime  wherein  the 
graces  of  the  toilet  had  no  function. 

The  gossip  took  another  tack,  originating  this  time 
in  some  trivial  happening  in  the  gymnasium.  Jean 
listened  closely  at  a  mention  of  basket-ball,  but  lost 
all  interest  when  the  talk  veered  fitfully  to  the  sew- 
ing-school. 

"Ain't  you  hungry  ?"  said  a  voice  at  her  side. 

Jean  rounded  upon  a  girl  perhaps  a  year  her  senior. 
Her  tones  were  gentle,  with  a  certain  lisping  appeal, 
and  her  face,  if  not  strong,  was  neither  abnormal  nor 
coarse.  Outside  a  refuge  uniform  she  would  readily 
pass  as  pretty. 

"I  couldn't  stomach  it  myself,  at  the  start,"  she 
went  on,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  "but  I  got 
used  to  it.  We  all  do.  Why,  the  days  I  work  in  the 
laundry  I'm  half  starved." 

Jean  stared. 

"They  make  you  do  laundry  work!" 

"Sure.  We  all  take  a  turn.  Everything  on  the 
place  is  done  by  the  girls,  you  know  —  washing, 
cooking,  tailoring,  gardening,  and  a  lot  besides." 

Her  auditor  relapsed  into  gloomy  silence,  a  new 
horror  added  to  her  plight.  At  home,  even  the  fac- 
totum they  styled  the  hired  girl  had  been  exempt 


i8  THE   CRUCIBLE 

from  washing.  A  strapping  negress  had  come  in 
Mondays  for  that. 

"I'm  next  door  to  you  upstairs,"  pursued  the  new 
acquaintance,  in  her  deprecating  way.  "My  name 
is  Amy  Jeffries.  What's  yours  ? " 

She  gave  it  after  a  moment's  debate.  The  old 
beloved  "Jack"  was  at  the  tip  of  her  tongue,  but  she 
suddenly  thought  better  of  it.  After  all,  "Jean" 
would  answer  for  this  place.  She  regretted  that  in 
lieu  of  Fanshaw  she  could  not  use  Jones,  or  Smith, 
or — master  stroke  of  irony  — the  abominated  Tuttle. 

"Jean  Fanshaw's  a  nice  name,"  commented  Amy 
sociably. 

Dreading  further  catechising,  Jean  struck  in  with 
a  question  of  her  own. 

"Why  have  those  girls  over  there  a  better  uniform 
and  a  table  to  themselves?"  she  demanded. 

"They're  high  grade." 

"What  does  that  mean?" 

"Six  months  without  a  mark."  Amy  Jeffries 
cast  a  look  of  envy  upon  the  group  at  the  side  table. 
"I'd  like  awfully  to  be  high  grade.  It  must  seem 
like  living  again  to  sit  down  to  a  tablecloth.  I  should 
like  the  cuffs  and  collars,  too.  I  just  love  dress. 
When  I  leave  here  I  think  I'll  go  into  a  dressmaking 
establishment,  or  a  milliner's." 

Jean  was  reminded  of  something. 

"Tell  me  how  I  can  get  out  of  here  in  a  year  and 
a  half,"  she  requested.  "Somebody  said  it  could  be 
done." 


THE   CRUCIBLE  19 

Amy  smiled  wanly. 

"I  wanted  to  know,  too,  when  I  was  green. 
I  could  just  see  the  guard  holding  the  gate  open 
as  I  sailed  off  the  grounds !  It  was  a  beautiful 
dream." 

"Why  couldn't  you  do  it?" 

"Marks,"  said  Amy  sententiously.  "Parole  in 
eighteen  months  means  a  perfect  record  right  from 
the  beginning.  I  thought  I'd  try  for  it,  but,  mercy, 
I've  never  even  made  high  grade !  Once  I  came 
within  six  weeks  of  it,  but  I  let  a  dress  go  down  to  the 
laundry  with  a  pin  in  it." 

"They  mark  for  a  little  thing  like  that?" 

"My  stars,  yes!  For  less  than  that  —  buttons 
off,  wrong  apron  in  the  recreation-room,  and  so  on. 
I  got  my  first  mark  for  wearing  my  hair  'pomp.' 
They  wont't  stand  for  it  here.  They  want  to  make  us 
as  hideous  as  they  can." 

A  lull  threw  the  remarks  of  the  girl  with  peculiar 
teeth  into  unsought  prominence. 

"Jim  was  a  swell-looker,"  she  was  saying,  "and  a 

good  spender  when  he  was  flush,  but  I  used  to  tell 

hj> 
im  — 

"Delia !"  The  matron  was  on  her  feet  leveling  a 
rebuking  finger  at  Jim's  biographer.  "You  know 
better.  Leave  the  room  at  once.  All  talking  will 
cease." 

The  culprit  scuffed  sulkily  out,  and  no  further  word 
was  uttered  till  the  end  of  the  meal,  when  at  a  signal 
all  rose  and  the  matron  observed  in  pontifical  tones, 


20  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"Thou  openest  Thy  hand!" 

On  this  occasion  Jean  caught  the  response  without 
difficulty.  The  words,  "And  Thou  fillest  all  things 
living  with  plenteousness,"  seemed  to  emanate 
chiefly  from  the  high-grade  table,  with  a  faint  echo 
on  the  part  of  Amy  Jeffries,  in  whom  the  ambition  to 
eat  from  a  cloth  still  persisted.  At  "plenteousness" 
one  bold  spirit  snickered. 

The  file  tramped  up  the  two  flights  by  which  it  had 
come,  and  scattered  to  its  rooms.  For  twenty 
minutes  Jean  sat  in  darkness  and  dejection.  Then 
the  fretful  bell  clamored  again,  the  doors  yawned  as 
before,  the  silent  ranks  re-formed,  and  the  march 
below  stairs  was  repeated.  Their  destination  proved 
to  be  the  recreation-room.  In  a  dwelling  this  cham- 
ber would  have  been  shunned.  Here,  compared 
with  such  other  parts  of  the  cottage  as  Jean  had 
seen,  it  seemed  blithesome.  Potted  geraniums  made 
grateful  oases  of  the  window-sills.  An  innocuous 
print  or  two  hung  upon  the  walls. 

As  the  girls  found  seats,  the  matron  handed  Jean 
a  letter. 

"You  will  be  allowed  to  answer  it  next  week," 
she  said.  "All  letter-writing  is  done  upon  the  third 
Friday  of  the  month." 

The  girl  took  the  missive  with  burning  face.  The 
envelope  was  already  slit.  The  letter  itself  had 
undergone  inspection,  and  five  whole  lines  had  been 
expunged.  But  her  anger  at  this  tampering  lost 
itself  in  the  unspeakable  bitterness  which  jaundiced 


THE   CRUCIBLE  21 

her  to  the  soul  as  she  read.     Better  that  they  had 
blotted  every  syllable. 

JEAN  :  I  hope  this  will  find  you  reconciled  to  your  cross,  and 
resolved  to  lead  a  different  life.  After  talking  over  this  great 
affliction  with  our  pastor,  and  taking  it  to  the  Throne  of  Grace 
in  prayer,  I  have  come  to  feel  that  His  hand  guides  us  in  this,  as 
in  all  things.  I  cannot  understand  why  I  have  been  so  chastened, 
but  I  bow  to  the  rod.  If  your  father  were  alive,  I  should  con- 
sider it  a  judgment  upon  him  for  his  lax  principles  in  religious 
matters.  I  never  could  comprehend  his  frivolous  indifference. 
I  am  sure  I  spared  no  effort  to  bring  him  to  a  realizing  sense  of 
his  impiety. 

Amelia  takes  the  same  view  that  I  do  of  all  that  has  happened. 
She  has  not  felt  like  going  out,  poor  sensitive  child,  but  .  .  . 
(The  hand  of  the  censor  lay  heavy  here.  Jean  readily  inferred, 
however,  that  Amelia's  retirement  had  its  solace.)  The  first 
storm  of  the  winter  came  yesterday.  Snow  is  six  inches  deep  on 
a  level,  and  eggs  are  high. 

Your  devoted  mother, 

MARCIA  FANSHAW. 

The  matron  was  reading  aloud  from  a  novel  which 
her  audience  found  absorbing.  Jean  could  give  it 
no  heed.  What  were  the  imaginary  woes  of  Oliver 
Twist  beside  her  actualities  ! 

The  hands  of  a  bland-faced  clock  crept  round  to 
bedtime.  The  reader  marked  her  place,  and,  after 
a  moment's  pause,  began  the  first  line  of  a  familiar 
hymn.  Jean  hated  hymn-singing  out  of  church. 
It  had  depressed  her  even  as  a  child,  while  later  it 
evoked  choking  memories  of  her  father's  funeral. 
So  she  set  her  teeth  till  they  made  an  end  of  it. 

Suggestive  also  of  her  father  and  of  vesper  services 


22  THE   CRUCIBLE 

to  which  they  had  sometimes  gone  together,  after  a 
Sunday  in  the  fields,  were  the  words  presently  re- 
peated by  the  forlorn  figures  kneeling  about  her; 
but  she  heard  them  with  mute  lips  and  in  passionate 
protest  against  their  personal  application.  These 
tawdry  creatures  might  confess  that  they  had  erred 
and  strayed  like  lost  sheep,  if  they  would.  She 
was  not  of  their  flock.  The  things  she  had  left 
undone  did  not  prick  her  conscience.  The  things 
which  she  ought  not  to  have  done  were  dwarfed  to 
peccadillos  by  the  vast  disproportion  of  their  pun- 
ishment. 


Ill 

LIFE  in  a  reformatory  is  an  ordeal  at  its  doubtful 
best.  It  approximated  its  noxious  worst  under  the 
martinet  whom  Cottage  No.  6  styled  "the  Holy 
Terror."  The  absolutism  of  the  superintendent  was 
at  least  founded  on  a  sense  of  duty;  her  imitator's 
was  based  upon  whim.  Jean's  chimera  of  parole 
after  eighteen  months  was  promptly  dissipated. 
Disciplined  at  the  outset  for  breaking  a  rule  of  which 
she  was  not  aware,  her  obedience  became  thence- 
forth a  captive's.  Scrubwoman,  laundress,  seam- 
stress, kitchen-drudge  —  all  roles  in  which  fate,  as 
embodied  in  the  matron,  cast  her  —  were  one  in  their 
odiousness.  She  slurred  their  doing  where  she 
could,  and  scorned  all  such  meek  spirits  as  curried 
favor  by  trying  their  best.  At  times  only  the  fear 
of  the  prison  deterred  her  from  open  mutiny. 

She  learned  presently  that  there  was  an  inferno 
lower  even  than  the  prison.  One  day,  while  clear- 
ing paths  after  a  heavy  snowfall,  she  saw  a  girl 
dragged  past,  handcuffed  and  struggling,  her  head 
muffled  in  the  brown  refuge  shawl,  but  audibly  and 
fluently  blasphemous  notwithstanding.  Jean  recog- 
nized Stella  Wilkes. 

Amy,  who  was  working  near,  said  in  furtive  under- 
tone: 

23 


24  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"I  heard  she'd  cut  loose  again.  She'll  get  all 
that's  coming  to  her  this  time." 

Jean  eyed  the  nearest  black-clad  watcher  before 
replying. 

"But  she's  in  prison,  anyhow,"  she  commented, 
with  Amy's  trick  of  the  motionless  lips.  "She  can't 
get  much  worse  than  she  has  already." 

"  Can't  she,  though  !     It's  the  guardhouse  this  trip." 

Jean  questioned  and  Amy  answered  till  the 
matron's  approach  stopped  communication.  It  was 
a  lurid  saga  of  the  days  before  the  state  abolished 
corporal  punishment,  handed  down  with  fresh  em- 
bellishments from  girl  to  girl.  The  air  was  full  of 
such  bizarre  folk-lore,  she  discovered  —  tales  of 
superintendents  who  failed  to  govern;  of  matrons, 
wise  and  foolish ;  of  delirious  riots  and  hairbreadth 
escapes.  Amy  Jeffries  was  always  the  channel 
which  conveyed  these  legends  to  Jean's  willing 
ears. 

From  all  others  Jean  held  herself  aloof.  Amy 
alone  seemed  a  victim  of  injustice  like  herself.  Jean 
invited  no  confidences,  and  made  none;  but  bit  by 
bit,  as  the  winter  passed,  the  story  of  this  pretty 
moth,  whose  world,  more  than  her  pleasure-loving 
self,  seemed  out  of  joint,  pieced  itself  together. 
It  was  a  common  story,  too  hackneyed  to  detail, 
though  it  signified  the  quintessence  of  tragedy  to  its 
narrator.  Of  itself,  it  struck  no  kindred  chord  in 
Jean.  It  passions,  its  temptations,  its  sin  were 
without  glamour  or  reason;  but  she  divined  that 


THE   CRUCIBLE  25 

nature,  rather  than  Amy,  had  wrought  this  coil,  and 
that,  after  the  fashion  of  a  topsy-turvy  universe, 
one  was  again  expiating  the  lapse  of  two. 

The  coming  of  spring  at  once  brightened  and 
embittered  Jean's  lot.  Outdoor  work  was  no  hard- 
ship. She  knew  the  times  and  seasons  of  all  grow- 
ing things;  which  soil  was  fattest;  when  plowshare, 
harrow,  spade,  and  hoe  should  do  their  appointed 
parts;  when  the  strawberry-beds  should  be  stripped 
of  their  winter  coverlets;  when  potatoes,  shorn  of 
their  pallid  cellar  sprouts,  should  be  quartered  and 
dropped;  when  peas  and  green  corn  should  be  sown; 
when  the  drooping  tomato  plants  should  be  set  out 
and  fostered;  and  she  entered  upon  this  dear  toil 
with  a  zest  which  nothing  indoors  had  inspired. 
But  she  knew  also  —  and  here  was  the  pang  — 
precisely  what  was  transpiring  out  there  in  the  forest 
which  all  but  touched  the  refuge  boundary.  With 
a  heartache  she  visualized  the  stir  of  shy  life  in  pond 
and  field  and  tree-top;  caught  in  memory  the  scent 
of  the  first  arbutus;  spied  out  the  earliest  violet; 
beheld  jack-in-the-pulpit  unbar  his  shutter;  saw 
the  mandrake  bear  its  apple,  the  ferns  uncurl,  the 
dogwood  bloom. 

The  call  of  the  woods  rang  most  insistent  when  she 
lay  in  her  iron  cot  at  twilight,  for  bedtime  still  came 
as  in  the  early  nights  of  winter,  at  an  hour  when  the 
play  of  the  outside  world  had  just  begun.  She  could 
see  the  bit  of  forest  from  her  narrow  window, 
and  in  fancy  made  innumerable  forays  into  its 


26  THE   CRUCIBLE 

captivating  depths  with  rod  or  gun.  It  was  these 
imaginary  outings,  ending  always  behind  locks  and 
bars,  which  first  set  her  thoughts  coursing  upon  the 
idea  of  escape. 

There  were  precedents  galore.  The  undercurrent 
of  reformatory  gossip  was  rich  in  these  picaresque 
adventures.  But  cleverly  planned  as  some  of  them 
had  been,  daringly  executed  as  were  others,  all  save 
one  ended  in  commonplace  recapture.  The  excep- 
tion enchained  Jean's  interest.  Amy  Jeffries  had 
rehearsed  the  tale  one  day  when  the  gardener,  con- 
cerned with  the  ravages  of  an  insect  invasion  of  the 
distant  currant  bushes,  left  the  lettuce-weeding  squad 
to  itself. 

"I  never  knew  Sophie  Powell,"  Amy  prefaced; 
"she  skipped  before  I  came.  But  they  say  she  was 
something  on  your  style  —  haughty-like  and  good 
at  throwing  a  bluff.  I  heard  that  the  men  down  at 
the  gatehouse  nicknamed  her  the  '  Empress-out-of-a- 
job.'  What  she  was  sent  here  for,  I  can't  say.  She 
was  as  close-mouthed  as  you.  Mind  you,  I'm  not 
criticising.  It's  risky  business,  swapping  life  his- 
tories here.  You're  the  only  girl  that's  heard  my 
story.  If  you  never  feel  like  telling  me  yours,  all 
right.  If  you  do,  why,  all  right,  too.  I  didn't 
mention  names,  and  you  needn't  either.  I  wonder 
if  be  would  do  as  much  for  me  !" 

Jean  checkmated  Amy's  maneuver  without  cere- 
mony. 

"  I've  no  man's  name  to  hide,"  she  returned  bluntly. 


THE   CRUCIBLE  27 

"But  never  mind  that.  It's  Sophie  Powell  I  want 
to  hear  about." 

Amy  took  no  offense. 

"My,"  she  laughed  admiringly;  "you  are  a 
riddle  !  Well,  as  I  say,  Sophie  had  a  way  with  her, 
and  knew  how  to  play  her  cards.  She  got  high  grade 
within  a  year,  and  worked  her  matron  for  special 
privileges.  The  matron  let  her  have  the  run  of  her 
room  a  good  deal,  for  Sophie  knew  to  a  T  just  how 
she  liked  everything  kept;  and  she  wasn't  over 
particular  about  locking  Sophie's  door,  which  was 
handy  to  her  own.  One  spring  night,  earlier  than 
this,  I  guess,  for  it  was  still  dark  at  supper,  she  played 
up  sick.  She  timed  her  spasm  for  an  hour  when  the 
doctor  was  generally  busy  at  the  hospital,  and  let  the 
matron  fuss  round  with  hot-water  bags  till  the  supper 
bell  rang.  Then  the  matron  went  downstairs,  leav- 
ing the  door  open  to  give  poor  Sophie  more  air.  As 
soon  as  she  heard  the  dishes  rattle,  the  invalid  got 
busy.  She  hopped  in  next  door,  pinched  the  matron's 
best  black  skirt  and  a  swell  white  silk  shirt  waist  she 
kept  for  special,  grabbed  a  hat  and  veil  and  a  long 
cloak  out  of  the  wardrobe  and  the  big  bunch  of 
house-keys  from  a  hiding-place  she'd  spotted,  tip- 
toed downstairs  and  let  herself  out  of  the  front  door." 

Jean  drew  a  long  breath. 

"But  the  guards?"  she  put  in. 

"She  only  ran  into  one  —  the  easy  mark  at  the 
gate." 

"The  gate!" 


28  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"Sure.  Sophie  didn't  propose  to  muss  her  new 
clothes  climbing  a  ten-foot  fence.  She  marched 
over  to  the  gatehouse,  bold  as  brass,  handed  in  her 
keys  as  she'd  seen  the  matrons  do,  and  was  out  in  no 
time.  Why,  the  guard  even  tipped  his  hat  —  so  he 
said  before  they  fired  him.  That  was  the  most 
comical  thing  about  it  all." 

Jean  threw  a  glance  over  her  shoulder.  The 
gardener  was  still  beyond  earshot. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said  eagerly.  "  How  did  she  manage 
outside  ?  That's  the  part  I  want  to  hear." 

"Then  came  smoother  work  still.  Sophie  hadn't 
a  cent  —  she  missed  the  matron's  purse  in  her 
hurry  —  but  she  had  her  nerve  along.  She  streaked 
it  over  into  town,  and  asked  her  way  to  the  priest 
who  comes  out  here  twice  a  month  for  confession. 
She  banked  on  his  not  remembering  her,  for  she 
wasn't  one  of  his  girls;  and  he  didn't.  His  sight 
was  poor,  anyhow.  Well,  she  told  him  she  was  a 
Catholic  and  a  stranger  in  town,  looking  for  work, 
and  that  she'd  just  had  a  telegram  from  home  saying 
her  mother  was  dying.  She  pumped  up  the  tears  in 
good  style,  and  put  it  up  to  him  to  ante  the  car  fare 
if  he  didn't  want  her  heart  to  break.  It  didn't 
break." 

Jean  absently  fashioned  the  moist  earth  beneath 
her  fingers  into  the  semblance  of  a  priest's  face,  which 
she  instantly  obliterated  when  it  stirred  Amy's 
interest. 

"Why  couldn't  they  trace  her?"  she  asked. 


THE   CRUCIBLE  29 

"Because  she  was  too  cute  to  stick  to  her  train. 
She  must  have  jumped  the  express  when  they  slowed 
up  for  their  first  stop." 

The  fugitive  bulked  large  in  Jean's  meditations. 
It  occurred  to  her  that  possibly  the  needless  rigor  of 
her  own  treatment  in  Cottage  No.  6  might  originate 
in  her  chance  resemblance  to  Sophie  Powell.  She 
wondered  how  it  fared  with  the  girl;  whether  she 
had  had  to  make  her  way  unbefriended;  to  what  she 
had  turned  her  hand.  Was  she  perhaps  living  a 
blameless  life,  respected,  loved,  in  all  ways  another 
personality,  yet  forever  hag-ridden  with  the  fear  of 
recapture  ?  She  did  not  debate  whether  such  free- 
dom were  worth  its  cost,  for  just  then  the  pungent 
invitation  of  the  woods  was  borne  to  her  across  the 
lettuce-rows. 

A  bit  of  refuse  crystallized  her  resolve.  She  spied 
it  toward  the  end  of  her  day's  toil  —  a  large  rusty 
nail  half  protruding  from  the  loam  —  and  knew  it 
instantly  for  the  tool  which  should  compass  her 
release.  Her  mind  acted  on  its  hint  with  extraordi- 
nary lucidity,  and  her  fingers  were  scarcely  less 
nimble.  Not  even  Amy  at  her  side  saw  her  slip  the 
treasure  trove  into  the  concealing  masses  of  her 
hair.  From  that  moment  till  the  bolts  were  shot 
upon  her  for  the  night  she  was  absorbed  in  her  plans. 

To  duplicate  Sophie  Powell's  exploit  was,  of 
course,  out  of  the  question.  Her  own  door  was  never 
left  unlocked;  the  Holy  Terror's  graceless  clothes, 
for  all  practical  uses,  might  as  well  hang  in  another 


30  THE   CRUCIBLE 

planet;  while  even  were  these  impossibilities  sur- 
mounted, she  could  scarcely  hope  to  hoodwink  the 
men  at  the  gate.  She  must  secure  a  disguise  some- 
how, but  she  cheerfully  left  that  detail  to  chance. 
To  escape  was  the  main  thing,  and  if  by  a  rusty  nail 
she  might  cross  that  bridge,  surely  she  need  borrow 
no  trouble  lest  her  wits  desert  her  afterward. 

A  tedious-toned  clock  over  in  the  town  struck 
twelve  before  she  dared  begin  her  attempt.  The 
watchman  had  just  gone  beneath  her  window  on  his 
hourly  round,  and  with  the  cessation  of  his  slow  pace 
upon  the  gravel  the  peace  of  midnight  overlay 
everything.  For  almost  two  hours  thereafter  Jean 
labored  with  her  rude  implement  at  the  staples  which 
held  the  woven-wire  barrier  before  her  window. 
The  first  staple  came  hardest,  but  she  had  pried  it 
loose  by  the  time  the  watch  repassed.  In  a  half-hour 
more  she  had  freed  enough  of  the  netting  to  serve 
her  end,  but  she  deferred  the  great  moment  till  the 
man  should  again  have  come  and  gone.  It  was  a 
difficult  wait,  centuries  long,  and  anxiety  began  to 
cheat  and  befool  her  reason.  She  questioned  whether 
she  had  not  lost  count  of  time.  Suppose  she  had 
let  him  come  upon  her  unheeded !  Suppose  he 
had  caught  some  hint  of  her  employment !  Sup- 
pose he  were  even  now  lurking,  spider-like,  in  the 
shadows  ! 

Then  the  clock  struck  twice  in  its  deliberative  way, 
the  measured  footfall  recurred,  and  her  brain  cleared. 
Five  minutes  later  she  bent  back  the  netting  and 


THE   CRUCIBLE  31 

calculated  the  distance  to  the  ground.  She  judged 
it  some  sixteen  or  eighteen  feet,  all  told,  or  a  sheer 
drop  of  more  than  half  that  space  as  she  would 
hang  by  her  finger-tips.  There  could  be  no  leaving 
a  telltale  rope  of  bedclothes  to  dangle.  Such  folly 
would  set  the  telephone  wires  humming  within  the 
hour.  She  must  drop,  and  drop  with  good  judgment; 
since  the  grass  plot,  which  she  counted  upon  to 
break  her  fall,  gave  place  directly  below  to  an  area, 
grated  over  to  be  sure,  but  undesirable  footing  not- 
withstanding. 

She  tossed  her  brown  shawl  to  the  ground  first,  and 
noted,  with  some  oddly  detached  segment  of  her 
mind,  that  it  spread  itself  on  the  sward  in  the  shape 
of  a  huge  bat.  A  romping  girlhood  steadying  her 
nerves,  she  let  herself  cautiously  over  the  sill,  and 
for  an  instant  hung  motionless,  her  eyes  below. 
Then,  gathering  momentum  from  a  double  swing, 
she  suddenly  relaxed  her  hold,  cleared  the  danger- 
point,  and  alighted,  uninjured  and  almost  without 
sound,  upon  the  springing  turf. 


IV 

For  a  moment  Jean  crouched  listening  where  she 
fell.  No  sound  issuing  from  within,  she  caught  up 
her  shawl  and  stole  quickly  toward  the  point  where 
she  planned  to  scale  the  high  fence  which  still  shut 
her  from  freedom.  There  was  no  moon,  but  the 
night  was  luminous  with  starshine,  and  she  hugged 
the  shadows  of  the  cottages.  These  buildings  shoul- 
dered one  another  closely  in  most  part,  but  she  came 
presently  to  a  gap  in  the  friendly  obscurity  where  a 
site  awaited  a  structure  for  which  the  state  had 
vouchsafed  no  funds.  It  was  bare  of  any  sort  of 
screen  whatever,  and  lay  in  full  range  not  only  of  the 
quadrangle,  which  it  broke,  but  of  the  gatehouse 
beyond. 

Nor  was  this  all.  Drifting  round  the  last  shelter- 
ing corner  came  the  reek  of  a  pipe.  Jean's  heart 
sank.  After  all,  the  trap !  Then  second  thought 
told  her  that  a  foe  in  ambush  would  not  smoke,  and 
she  gathered  courage  to  reconnoiter.  Across  the 
quadrangle  she  made  out  the  motionless  figure  of  the 
watch.  He  was  plainly  without  suspicion.  He  had 
completed  his  circuit  and  was  lounging  against  a 
hydrant,  his  idle  gaze  upon  the  stars. 

So  for  cycling  ages  he  sat.  Yet  but  a  quarter  of 

32 


THE   CRUCIBLE  33 

an  hour  had  lapsed  when  the  man  knocked  the  ashes 
from  his  pipe,  yawned  audibly,  and  turned  upon  his 
heel.  The  instant  the  door  of  the  gatehouse  swal- 
lowed him,  Jean  sped  like  a  phantom  across  the  open 
ground,  skirted  the  hospital,  the  tool-sheds,  and  the 
hotbeds,  and  plunged  into  the  recesses  of  the  garden. 
All  else  was  simple.  The  high  fence  had  no  terrors; 
her  scaling-ladder  was  a  piece  of  board.  The  asperi- 
ties of  the  barbed  wire  she  softened  with  her  shawl. 
When  the  town  clock  brought  forth  its  next  languid 
announcement  she  heard  it  without  a  tremor.  She 
was  resting  on  a  mossy  slope  a  mile  or  more  away. 

She  made  but  a  brief  halt,  for  the  East,  toward 
which  she  set  her  face,  was  already  paling.  It  was 
no  blind  flight.  She  struck  for  the  hills  deliberately, 
since  behind  the  hills  ran  the  boundary  of  another 
commonwealth.  All  fellow-runaways,  whose  stories 
she  knew,  had  foolishly  held  to  the  railroad  or  other 
main  traveled  ways,  and,  barring  the  brilliant  So- 
phie, had  for  that  very  reason  come  early  to  disaster. 
Jean  reasoned  that  they  were  in  all  likelihood  city 
girls  whom  the  woods  terrified.  Their  stupidity  was 
incredible.  To  fear  what  they  should  love !  She 
took  great  breaths  of  the  cool  fragrance.  She  could 
not  get  her  fill  of  it. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  not  yet  her  purpose  to  quit  the 
tilled  countryside  utterly.  She  hoped  first  to  compel 
clothing  from  it  somehow  —  clothing,  and  then  food, 
of  which  she  began  to  feel  the  need.  The  fact  that 
she  must  probably  come  unlawfully  by  these  neces- 


34  THE   CRUCIBLE 

saries  gave  her  slight  compunction.  In  some  rose- 
colored,  prosperous  future  she  could  make  anony- 
mous amends.  She  haunted  the  outskirts  of  three 
several  farmhouses,  but  without  success.  At  none 
of  them  had  garments  of  any  kind  been  left  outdoors 
over  night.  Some  impossible  rags  fluttered  from  a 
scarecrow  in  a  field  of  young  corn;  that  was  all. 
Things  edible,  too,  were  as  carefully  housed.  Near 
the  last  place  she  found  a  spring  with  a  tin  cup  be- 
side it.  She  drank  long,  and  took  the  cup  away 
with  her. 

It  was  too  light  now  for  foraging,  and  Jean  took 
up  her  eastward  march,  avoiding  the  highways  and 
resorting  to  hedgerows,  stone  walls,  or  briers  where 
the  woods  failed.  As  the  day  grew  she  saw  farm- 
hands pass  to  their  work,  and  once,  in  the  far  dis- 
tance, she  caught  the  seductive  glitter  of  a  dinner  pail. 
She  was  ravenous  from  her  long  fast,  and  nibbled  at 
one  or  two  palatable  wild  roots  which  she  knew  of  old. 
They  seemed  savorless  to-day,  almost  sickening  in 
fact;  and  her  fancy  dwelt  covetously  upon  the  re- 
sources of  orchard,  garden,  and  field,  that  the  next 
month  but  one  would  lavish.  Nevertheless,  she  har- 
bored no  regret  that  she  had  taken  time  somewhat 
too  eagerly  by  the  forelock. 

Noon  found  her  beside  a  lake  well  up  among  the 
hills.  She  knew  the  region  by  hearsay.  People 
came  here  in  hot  weather,  she  remembered.  Some- 
where alongshore  should  stand  log-camps  of  a  species 
which  urban  souls  fondly  thought  pioneer,  but  which 


THE   CRUCIBLE  35 

snugly  neighbored  a  summer  hotel  where  ice,  news- 
papers, scandal,  and  like  benefits  of  civilization  could 
be  had.  These  play  houses  were  as  yet  tenantless, 
of  course  —  and  foodless;  but  the  chance  of  finding 
some  cast-off  garment,  possibly  too  antiquated  for 
a  departing  summer  girl,  but  precious  beyond  cloth 
of  gold  to  a  fugitive  in  blue-and-white  check,  buoyed 
Jean's  spirits  and  lent  fresh  energy  to  her  muscles. 
Equipped  with  another  dress,  be  its  style  and  color 
what  they  might,  she  felt  that  she  could  cope  fear- 
lessly with  fate. 

She  had  followed  the  vagrant  shore-line  for  per- 
haps a  mile  when  two  things,  assailing  her  senses 
simultaneously,  brought  her  to  an  abrupt  halt.  One 
was  the  smell  of  frying  bacon;  the  other  was  a  bari- 
tone voice  which  broke  suddenly  into  the  chorus  of 
a  rollicking  popular  air.  Jean  wheeled  for  flight, 
but,  beguiled  by  the  bacon  which  just  then  wafted 
a  fresh  appeal,  she  turned,  cautiously  parted  the 
undergrowth,  and  beheld  a  young  man  swaying  in 
a  hammock  slung  between  two  birch  trees.  He  held 
in  his  lap  a  book  into  which  he  dipped  infrequently, 
singing  meanwhile;  and  his  attention  was  further 
divided  between  the  crackling  spider  and  a  fishing- 
rod  propped  in  a  forked  stick  at  the  water's  edge. 
Jean  viewed  his  methods  with  disapproval.  It  was 
neither  the  way  to  read,  sing,  fry  bacon,  nor  yet 
fish. 

Possibly  some  such  idea  suggested  itself  to  this 
over  versatile  person,  for  he  presently  rolled  out  of  the 


36  THE   CRUCIBLE 

hammock  and  centered  his  talents  upon  the  line, 
which  he  began  to  reel  in  as  if  the  mechanism  were 
an  amusing  novelty.  The  stern  critic  in  the  back- 
ground perceived  the  hand  of  an  amateur  in  the  re- 
baiting,  and  predicted  sorrier  bungling  still  when  he 
should  essay  the  cast.  Her  gloomiest  forebodings, 
however,  fell  far  short  of  the  amazing  event.  She 
expected  the  recklessly  whirling  lead  to  shoot  some- 
where into  the  foliage,  but  nothing  prepared  her  for 
its  sure  descent  upon  herself.  There  was  no  dis- 
entangling that  outlandish  collection  of  hooks  at 
short  notice,  and  she  did  not  try.  But  neither  could 
she  break  the  line.  The  bushes  separated  while  she 
struggled,  and  a  vast  silence  befell. 

Jean  straightened  slowly. 

"You're  a  prize  angler,"  she  said. 

The  young  fellow's  bewilderment  gave  way  to  an 
expansive  smile. 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,"  he  admitted.  "I  ought 
to  have  a  blue  ribbon,  or  a  pewter  mug,  or  whatever 
they  give  the  duffer  who  lands  the  biggest  catch. 
Let  me  help  you  with  those  hooks.  I  hope  they 
haven't  torn  your  dress  ?" 

Then  the  blue-and-white  check  drew  him.  The 
girl's  eyes  had  held  him  first;  next,  her  brows;  after- 
ward, her  contrasting  hair.  The  uniform  compelled 
his  gaze  to  significant  details  —  the  shawl,  the 
coarse  shoes,  the  fallen  cup. 

Jean  flushed  under  his  scrutiny,  and  brusquely 
declined  his  help. 


THE  CRUCIBLE  37 

"No,  but  let  me,"  he  urged,  and  so  humbly  that 
she  relented. 

"I  know  more  about  these  things  than  you  do," 
she  said.  "Do  you  know  you're  trying  several  kinds 
of  fishing  with  one  line  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  smiled.  "You  see  I  haven't  a  no- 
tion what  sort  of  fish  frequent  these  waters,  and  fish 
vary  a  lot  in  their  tastes.  Some  prefer  worms,  some 
have  a  cannibal  appetite  for  minnows,  and  some,  I 
believe,  like  a  little  bunch  of  colored  feathers,  which 
can't  be  very  nourishing,  I  must  say.  I  couldn't 
make  up  my  mind  which  bait  to  use,  and  so  I  spread 
a  kind  of  lunch-counter  for  all  comers." 

This  was  too  much  for  Jean's  gravity.  The  fisher- 
man was  unruffled  by  her  laughter.  In  fact,  he 
laughed  with  her. 

"Is  it  so  preposterous  as  all  that?"  he  asked. 
"I  didn't  know  but  I'd  hit  on  something  new. 
This  tackle  doesn't  belong  to  me;  it's  the  other 
fellow's." 

Jean's  glance  shot  past  him.  The  man  saw  and 
understood. 

"We  planned  to  camp  together,"  he  explained, 
"but  a  telegram  overtook  him  on  the  train.  It  was 
highly  inconsiderate  in  a  mere  great-grandmother  to 
pick  out  just  this  time  for  her  funeral.  I  look  for 
him  to-morrow  or  the  day  after." 

Jean  freed  her  dress  at  length  and  searched  for  her 
belongings.  The  young  man  stooped  also.  He  was 
too  late  for  the  shawl,  but  gravely  restored  the  tin 


38  THE   CRUCIBLE 

cup.  She  thanked  him,  as  gravely,  and  after  a  little 
pause  added :  — 

"The  least  you  can  do  is  to  say  nothing." 

"About  seeing  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"You're  from  the  other  side  of  the  county?" 

"Yes." 

"From  the-    '  he  hesitated. 

"From  the  House  of  Refuge,"  stated  Jean,  look- 
ing him  squarely  in  the  face. 

His  own  gaze  was  as  direct. 

"But  not  that  sort,"  he  commented  softly,  as  if 
thinking  aloud  —  "  not  that  sort." 

Jean,  boy-like,  offered  her  hand. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  simply.  "You're  quite 
right.  That's  exactly  why  I'm  running  away. 
Good-by." 

"Don't  go !"  He  detained  her  hand,  his  face  full 
of  sympathy  and  perplexity.  "I  can't  begin  to  tell 
you  how  sorry  I  am.  It  would  be  hard  lines  for  a 
fellow,  but  when  I  see  a  girl "  —  his  eyes  added : 
"And  such  a  girl!"  —  "roaming  the  country  like  a 
—  a  homeless  — " 

"Hobo?"    supplied  Jean. 

He  reddened  guiltily. 

"Hang  it  all !"  he  ended,  "I  can't  stand  it.  You 
hit  the  nail  on  the  head  when  you  told  me  that  the 
least  I  can  do  is  to  say  nothing.  But  I  trust  that 
isn't  all  I  can  do.  I  want  to  help." 

The  girl's  eyes  misted. 


THE   CRUCIBLE  39 

"You  have  helped,  you  believe  in  me." 

"Who  wouldn't!"  His  bearing  challenged  the 
world. 

"Several  people.  My  family,  for  instance;  most 
of  the  officials  back  there  at  the  refuge.  But  never 
mind  that." 

"No,"  agreed  her  new  champion.  "Never  mind 
that.  Let's  face  the  future,  the  practicalities." 

Jean  complied  with  despatch. 

"Your  bacon  is  burning,"  she  announced. 

He  led  the  way  to  his  camp,  and  together  they  sur- 
veyed the  charred  ruin  in  the  spider.  Jean  could 
have  devoured  it  as  it  lay. 

"And  it's  my  first  warm  meal,"  lamented  the 
camper  tragically  —  "my  first  warm  meal  after  five 
days  of  canned  stuff!  The  other  fellow  was  to  be 
cook  as  well  as  fisherman." 

Jean  promptly  mastered  the  situation. 

"Clean  that  spider  while  I  slice  more  bacon,"  she 
directed,  rolling  up  her  sleeves.  "If  you  have  po- 
tatoes, wash  about  a  dozen." 

The  victim  of  a  canned  diet  flung  himself  blithely 
into  the  work,  but  halted  suddenly,  halfway  to  the 
water,  and  brandished  the  spider  in  air. 

"Not  a  mouthful  unless  you'll  eat  too?"  he 
stipulated. 

Jean  gave  a  happy  laugh. 

"Perhaps  I  can  be  pressed,"  she  conceded. 

With  a  facility  which  would  have  amazed  the  ref- 
uge, and  with  a  secret  pride  in  her  new  knowledge 


40  THE   CRUCIBLE 

which  she  had  little  dreamed  she  could  come  to  feel, 
Jean  set  the  bacon  and  potatoes  frying,  evolved  a  plate 
of  sandwiches  from  soda  crackers  and  a  tin  of  sar- 
dines, discovered  a  jar  of  olives  which  their  owner 
had  forgotten,  and  arranged  the  whole  upon  a  box- 
cover  laid  with  a  napkin.  Nor  was  this  the  sum  of 
the  miracle.  She  even  garnished  the  meat  with  a 
handful  of  water-cress  which  she  spied  and  bade 
her  admiring  host  gather  in  a  neighboring  brook. 

They  said  little  during  the  meal,  for  both  were  fam- 
ished; but  while  they  washed  the  dishes  together  by 
the  shore  Jean,  under  questioning,  sketched  the  story 
of  her  flight.  Her  listener's  ejaculations  gained 
steadily  in  vigor,  till  ultimately,  moved  by  a  startling 
thought,  he  dropped  the  plate  he  was  polishing. 

"Look  here!"  he  cried.  "Have  you  had  a  wink 
of  sleep  ?" 

"I  got  in  an  hour  about  the  middle  of  the  fore- 
noon." 

"One  hour  out  of  thirty!" 

"It  was  enough." 

"I'll  sling  the  hammock  anywhere  you  say." 

"I  was  never  more  wide  awake.  There  are  too 
many  things  to  think  out  and  plan." 

"Take  the  hammock,  anyhow,"  he  urged.  "You 
can  plan  and  rest,  too." 

She  let  herself  be  so  far  persuaded,  and  he  brought 
pillows  from  the  tent.  As  she  let  herself  relax,  she 
first  realized  how  weary  she  had  become,  and  closed 
her  eyes  that  she  might  taste  the  full  luxury  of  rest. 


THE   CRUCIBLE  41 

The  rhythmic  chuckle  of  the  little  brook  where  the 
watercress  grew  was  ineffably  soothing.  It  seemed 
almost  articulate,  an  elfish  voice  to  which  the  small 
waves,  lapping  the  shore,  played  a  delicate  accom- 
paniment. She  dreamily  fitted  words  to  its  chant, 
and  presently,  still  smiling  at  the  conceit,  strayed 
quite  into  the  delectable  land  where  water-sprites  are 
real,  and  beautiful  impossibilities  matter  of  fact. 

The  shadows  had  lengthened  when  she  woke.  Her 
companion  sat  with  his  back  to  a  tree  trunk  as  be- 
fore, but  she  perceived  that  he  had  stretched  a  bit 
of  canvas  to  screen  her  from  the  slanting  sun. 

"It  was  best  all  round,"  he  said,  as  she  sprang  up 
reproachfully.  "  It  did  you  good  and  gave  me  leisure 
to  think.  I  felt  sorrier  than  ever  while  you  lay  there, 
smiling  and  dimpling  in  your  sleep,  like  a  child." 

"I  despise  that  dimple,"  avowed  Jean,  disgustedly. 

"You  despise  it!'* 

"It's  so  —  so  feminine." 

"Of  course  it  is;  that  is  no  reason  for  abusing  it." 

"I  think  it's  a  mighty  good  reason.  A  dimple 
will  be  a  great  handicap  in  my  life." 

"Great  Jupiter!"  said  the  young  man  softly. 
"  Why,  some  girls  I  know  would  give  —  But  we  can't 
discuss  dimples,  just  now,  can  we  ?  What  I  began 
to  say,  before  you  took  my  breath  away,  was  that  I 
think  I've  solved  the  clothes  problem.  You  know 
there's  a  town  about  ten  miles  to  the  north  —  the 
county  seat  —  and  it  occurs  to  me  that  if  I  set  out 
to-night,  I  can  be  back  here  early  in  the  morning 


42  THE   CRUCIBLE 

with  everything  you'll  need.  I  don't  believe  they'll 
suspect  me,  even  if  they  have  happened  to  read  that 
a  refuge  girl  has  escaped.  I  can  buy  the  skirt  in  one 
store,  the  hat  in  another,  and  so  on,  pretending 
they're  for  my  sister  —  or  my  wife." 

Jean's  refractory  dimple  deepened. 

"Make  it  your  mother,"  she  advised.  "Wives 
and  sisters  prefer  to  do  their  own  shopping." 

"Very  well,  then.  If  you  will  jot  down  the  meas- 
urements and  other  technicalities,  I'll  manage  it  some- 
how. ^\.s  for  money,"  he  added,  perceiving  her  falter, 
"I  will  take  care  of  that,  too,  if  you'll  allow  me. 
You  will  naturally  need  a  loan." 

Jean  swallowed  a  lump. 

"You're  a  brick,"  she  said  huskily.  "I'll  pay  you 
back  with  the  first  money  I  earn." 

The  brick  received  her  praise  with  a  change  of 
color  appropriate  to  his  title. 

"Any  fellow  would  be  —  be  glad  to  help,  you 
know,"  he  stammered.  "And  you  needn't  feel  that 
you  must  hurry  to  pay  up,  either.  Wait  until  you're 
well  settled  among  your  friends." 

"My  friends!     I  have  none." 

"No  friends!"  He  stared  blankly.  "Of  course 
I  realized  that  you  could  hardly  go  back  home,  but 
I  took  it  for  granted  that  there  must  be  some  place  — 
somebody  — " 

"There  isn't." 

He  sat  down  abruptly,  bewildered  with  the  com- 
plexities which  beset  an  apparently  simple  situation. 


THE   CRUCIBLE  43 

Jean  herself  began  to  entertain  some  misgiving.  For 
the  moment  his  opinion  epitomized  the  world's. 

"Where  do  you  mean  to  go  ?"   he  asked. 

"Across  the  state  line  first;   then  to  New  York." 

"New  York!" 

"Yes;  to  find  work.  Why  do  you  stare  as  if  I'd 
said  Timbuctoo?" 

"I'm  from  New  York." 

"Are  you?"  She  brightened  wonderfully.  "Then 
you  can  tell  me  where  to  find  work.  I'm  willing  to 
do  anything  at  the  start,  but  by  and  by  I  want  to  get 
into  some  good  business.  Women  are  succeeding  in 
business  on  all  sides  nowadays.  Why  do  you  look 
so  hopeless  ?  Don't  you  think  I  can  get  on  ?" 

"  How  can  I  answer  you  !  If  there  were  only  some 
woman  to  whom  I  might  take  you.  I've  a  sister, 
but—" 

"But  she  wouldn't  understand  ?" 

"No,  she  wouldn't  understand.  Neither  do  you 
understand,"  he  went  on  anxiously.  "To  be  a 
stranger  in  New  York,  homeless,  friendless,  without 
work,  the  shadow  of  that  place  over  there  dogging 
your  steps ;  with  you  what  you  are  —  trustful,  un- 
suspicious, open  as  sunlight  —  Oh,  I  daren't  advise 
you.  I  don't  dare." 

Jean  was  awed,  but  not  downcast. 

"I'll  risk  it,"  she  replied  stoutly. 

Twice  he  opened  his  lips  to  speak,  but  rose  instead 
and  paced  among  the  trees.  Finally  he  confronted 
her. 


44  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"Why  not  go  back?"    he  asked. 

Jean  widened  her  eyes  upon  him. 

"Go  back!     Go  back  to  the  refuge?" 

"Yes.  Why  not  go  back  and  see  it  through? 
No,  no,"  he  entreated,  as  her  lip  curled.  "Don't 
think  I'm  trying  to  squirm  out  of  my  offer.  That 
stands.  It's  you  I'm  considering.  Remember  that 
no  matter  how  much  you  may  make  of  yourself  those 
people  over  there  will  have  the  power  to  take  it  from 
you.  Should  you  marry  — " 

"I  shall  never  marry." 

"Should  you  marry  —  ah!  you  will  —  they  can 
shame  you  and  the  man  whose  name  you  bear.  Could 
you  stand  that  ?  After  all,  isn't  the  other  way  better  ? 
Wouldn't  a  clean  slate  be  worth  its  price  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"You  don't  realize  what  you  ask.  I  can't  go  back. 
I  can't.  You  don't  know." 

"I  suppose  I  don't,"  he  admitted. 

"I'd  rather  run  the  risk  —  the  risk  of  their  finding 
me,  the  risk,  whatever  it  is,  of  New  York.  As  for 
friends  — "  she  smiled  upon  him  radiantly  —  "well, 
I'll  have  you." 

"Yes,"  he  promised.     "You'll  have  me." 

He  accepted  her  decision,  and  at  once  made  ready 
for  his  tramp  across  the  hills.  At  parting  he  re- 
minded her  that  to  him  she  was  still  nameless. 

"I'm  not  sure  myself,"  she  laughed.  "I'll  need 
a  new  name  in  New  York!" 

"But  now?" 


THE   CRUCIBLE  45 

"Well,  then  — Jack." 

"To  offset  the  dimple,  I  suppose.  Is  it  short  for 
Jacqueline  ?" 

"No;   just  Jack." 

Jean's  knight  errant  looked  back  once  before  the 
tree-boles  shut  her  wholly  away.  She  had  dropped 
upon  a  log  and  was  facing  the  blue  reach  of  the  lake. 
This  was  about  six  o'clock  in  the  evening.  At  nine 
she  had  not  shifted  her  position.  It  was  perhaps  an 
hour  later  when  she  sprang  up  abruptly,  lit  a  candle 
which  he  had  shown  her  in  arranging  for  the  night, 
and  hunting  out  a  pencil  and  paper,  wrote  a  hurried 
note  which  she  pinned  to  the  tent-flap. 

There  were  but  two  lines  in  all.  The  first  thanked 
him.  The  second  ran :  — 

"I've  gone  back  to  see  it  through." 


THE  refuge,  considered  officially,  was  impressed. 
That  any  fugitive,  let  alone  one  who  had  outwitted 
pursuit,  should  freely  present  herself  at  the  gate- 
house, spiced  its  drab  annals  with  originality.  Jean 
Fanshaw,  no  less  than  Sophie  Powell,  had  achieved 
distinction.  The  refuge  dissembled  its  emotion, 
however.  An  escape  was  an  escape,  with  draconic 
penalties  no  more  to  be  stayed  than  the  march  of  a 
glacier  or  the  changes  of  the  moon. 

But  even  the  refuge  —  from  the  vantage-point  of  a 
supposed  ventilator  reached  by  a  secret  stair  —  dis- 
cerned that  the  prisoner  of  the  guardhouse  was  un- 
accountably not  the  rebel  of  Cottage  No.  6.  The 
girl  who  dropped  from  the  window  would  have  found 
this  duress  maddening.  Four  brick  walls  were  its 
horizon;  its  furnishing  was  a  mattress  thrust  through 
a  grudging  door  at  night  and  withdrawn  when  the 
dim  glow,  filtering  through  a  ground-glass  disk  in  the 
ceiling,  heralded  the  return  of  another  day.  It  was 
always  twilight  within,  for  the  occupations  of  a  guard- 
house require  little  light.  Text-books,  no  other 
print,  were  sometimes  permitted,  but  even  these  arid 
pastimes  were  not  for  Jean ;  the  school  taught  noth- 
ing she  had  not  mastered.  Her  resources  were  two : 

46 


THE   CRUCIBLE  47 

she  might  knit  or  she  might  think.  She  usually 
chose  the  latter. 

Another  thing  puzzled  the  refuge  —  still  considered 
officially.  It  was  no  novelty  for  a  song  to  rise  to  the 
pseudo-ventilator  (inmates  so  punished  often  sang 
out  of  bravado  when  first  confined),  but  it  was  quite 
unprecedented  for  a  girl  with  no  couch  but  the  floor, 
no  outlook  save  the  walls,  no  employment  except 
knitting,  companioned  solely  by  her  thoughts,  to 
croon  the  words  of  a  rollicking  popular  air  as  if  she 
were  content. 

Jean,  too,  wondered  unceasingly.  Why  had  her 
old  ideas  of  life  cheapened  ?  Save  one  chance 
stranger,  men  had  met  her  on  the  footing  of  boyish 
good-fellowship  which  she  required  of  them :  why 
should  this  no  longer  seem  wholly  desirable  ?  Why 
had  she  relished  a  chivalrous  insistence  on  her  sex  ? 
Why  had  she  taken  pride  in  the  practice  of  a  menial 
feminine  art  ?  Why  had  all  things  womanly  shifted 
value  ?  Why,  above  all,  did  she  feel  no  regret  that 
these  things  should  be  ?  Yet  content  was  scarcely 
the  word  for  her  frame  of  mind.  Her  thoughts  were 
a  yeasty  ferment  out  of  which  the  unknown  youth 
of  the  forest,  whose  very  name  was  a  mystery,  began 
presently  to  emerge  as  an  ideal  figure.  And  this  ideal 
man  had  on  his  part  a  conception  of  ideal  woman- 
hood !  Here  was  the  germinal  truth  at  last. 

While  she  pondered,  two  solitary  weeks  which  by 
popular  account  should  have  been  unspeakable, 
slipped  magically  away.  She  dreaded  their  end,  for 


48  THE   CRUCIBLE 

she  knew  that  in  the  adamantine  scheme  of  things 
six  months  of  prison  life,  at  very  least,  awaited  her. 
Even  to  the  average  refuge  girl  the  prison  signified 
degradation;  to  Jean  it  also  spelled  Stella  Wilkes. 
The  abhorred  contact  did  not  begin  at  once,  however, 
since  it  fell  out  that  in  runaway  cases  the  powers 
were  wont  to  decree  yet  another  fortnight  of  isolation 
following  the  transfer  from  the  guardhouse.  But 
isolation  in  the  prison  was  a  relative  term.  The  build- 
ing's sights  could  be  shut  away;  its  sounds  penetrated 
every  cranny. 

Such  sounds !  One  of  them  broke  Jean's  light 
slumber  her  first  night  under  the  prison  roof.  It  was 
a  strand  in  the  woof  of  her  dreams  at  first,  a  monoto- 
nous, tuneless  plaint,  strangely  exotic,  like  nothing 
earthly  except  the  wailing  of  savage  women  who 
mourn  their  dead.  She  lay  half  awake  for  an  in- 
terval, the  weird  chant  clutching  at  her  heart.  Then, 
as  it  rose,  waxing  shriller  with  each  repetition,  she  sat 
bolt  upright  with  hair  prickling  and  flesh  acreep. 
It  was  a  menace  to  the  living,  not  a  requiem;  a 
virulent  explicit  curse. 

"The  matron  to  hell !  The  matron  to  hell !  The 
matron  to  hell !" 

The  prison  stirred. 

"The  matron  to  hell !  The  matron  to  hell !  The 
matron  to  hell !" 

Here  a  woman  laughed;  there  one  began  softly 
to  echo  the  cry;  cell  warily  hailed  cell. 

"The  matron  to  hell !  The  matron  to  hell !  The 
matron  to  hell !" 


THE   CRUCIBLE  49 

The  pulsing  hate  of  it  now  filled  the  corridors. 
A  door  opened  somewhere,  and  a  metallic  footfall 
began  to  echo  briskly  from  iron  stairs. 

"Is  it  mesilf  ye're  wantin',  darlin'  ?"  called  a 
fat-throated  voice.  "I'll  not  keep  ye  waitin'.  With 
ye  in  a  jiffy  !" 

There  was  a  sound  of  shooting  bolts,  a  brief  scuffle, 
the  click  of  handcuffs,  and  a  ragged  retreat.  Pres- 
ently a  door  slammed,  and  the  matron's  steps  alone 
retraced  the  lower  corridors.  Far  in  the  distance, 
muffled  by  intervening  walls,  its  two  emphatic  words 
only  audible,  the  eerie  defiance  still  rose  and  untir- 
ingly persisted  until  it  again  entered  the  fabric  of 
Jean  Fanshaw's  dreams. 

That  cry  somehow  struck  the  dominant  note  of 
the  prison.  Its  bitterness,  its  mental  squalor,  its 
agonizing  repression,  its  smouldering  revolt,  all 
focussed  in  that  hysterical  outburst  against  constituted 
authority.  Jean  heard  it  again  and  again  in  the  en- 
suing months,  and  in  each  instance  it  broke  the  still- 
ness of  night.  The  second  time  it  startled,  but  did 
not  frighten.  The  third  she  thrilled  to  its  message, 
knowing  it  at  last  for  her  own  fiery  heartache  made 
articulate.  But  this  was  afterward. 

In  the  beginning  Stella  Wilkes  overshadowed  their 
background.  She  and  Jean  had  had  a  grammar- 
school  acquaintance  in  the  days  before  respect- 
ability and  the  Wilkes  girl  —  as  Shawnee  Springs 
knew  her  —  parted  company;  and  it  was  to  this 
period  of  democratic  equality  and  relative  innocence 


50  THE   CRUCIBLE 

to  which  Stella  chose  sentimentally  to  revert  when  she 
first  found  a  chance  to  speak. 

"Can't  say  I  feel  a  day  older  than  I  did  then," 
she  went  on,  sociably.  "Do  I  look  it?" 

Jean  made  some  answer.  Stella  indeed  seemed 
no  different;  looking  a  mature  woman  at  sixteen, 
she  had  simply  marked  time  since.  A  mole,  oddly 
placed  near  one  corner  of  her  mouth  where  another 
girl  would  dimple,  still  fascinated  by  its  unexpected- 
ness. Stella  noticed  this  and  laughed. 

"Remember  how  all  you  little  kids  used  to  rubber 
at  my  mole?"  she  said.  "It  made  me  mad.  I  don't 
care  now  when  people  stare,  but  I  wish  it  was  on 
my  neck.  'Moles  on  the  neck,  money  by  the  peck,' 
you  know.  Queer,  ain't  it,  that  two  of  us  from  the 
old  West  Street  school  should  strike  this  joint  to- 
gether ?  It's  just  the  same  as  if  we'd  gone  away  to 
college  —  I  don't  think !  Any  Shawnee  Springs 
news  to  tell  ?" 

"No,"  Jean  answered,  stonily. 

Stella  saw  that  her  advances  were  unwelcome,  and 
her  mood  veered. 

"That's  your  game,  is  it?"  She  thrust  her  hard 
face  closer.  "So  I  ain't  in  your  class,  my  lady - 
you  that  was  so  keen  for  the  boys !  You  give  me  a 
pain.  As  if  near  the  whole  kit  of  us  wasn't  pinched 
for  the  same  reason.  Go  tell  the  marines  you're  any 
better  than  the  rest !" 

It  was  Jean's  first  sharp  conception  of  the  brutal 
truth  that  the  stigma  of  the  reformatory  was  all- 


THE   CRUCIBLE  51 

embracing.  The  world  presently  emphasized  the 
stern  lesson.  True  to  her  word  on  learning  of  the 
censorship,  she  had  never  written  home;  but  her 
mother's  letters,  formal  and  mutilated  as  they  were, 
had  nevertheless  meant  more  to  her  than  she  realized 
until  her  degradation  to  the  prison  lopped  this  privi- 
lege too  away.  The  cumulative  effect  of  Mrs.  Fan- 
shaw's  correspondence,  when  finally  read,  was  not 
tonic.  Despite  the  censor,  Jean  gathered  that 
Shawnee  Springs  now  linked  her  name  with  Stella 
Wilkes's.  A  refuge  girl  was  a  refuge  girl;  degrees 
and  shadings  of  misconduct  lost  themselves  in  the 
murky  sameness  of  the  stain.  Her  grateful  wonder 
grew  that  her  champion  of  the  forest  had  had  the 
insight  to  distinguish.  His  quixotic  young  faith 
and  a  heartening  word  now  and  then  from  Miss 
Archer,  when  some  infrequent  errand  brought  the 
little  secretary  near,  between  them  redeemed  humanity. 
A  torrid  summer  dragged  into  an  autumn  scarcely 
less  enervating.  The  kitchen-gardens  were  arid; 
the  grass-plots  sere;  the  scant  wisps  of  ivy  wherewith 
Miss  Archer,  unsanctioned  by  the  state,  had  at- 
tempted to  soften  the  more  glaring  shortcomings  of 
the  architect,  hung  dead  beyond  all  hope  of  resur- 
rection ;  and  the  endless  reaches  of  brick  wall,  soaked 
in  sunshine  by  day,  reeked  like  huge  ovens  the  live- 
long night.  The  officials'  tempers  grew  short,  their 
decisions  arbitrary  beyond  common;  obedience  be- 
came daily  more  difficult;  riot,  full-charged,  awaited 
only  its  galvanizing  spark. 


52  THE   CRUCIBLE 

This  the  prison  contributed.  Conditions  were 
always  hardest  here,  and  the  rage  they  fostered  had 
gathered  itself  into  an  ominous  hatred  of  the  matron. 
Nor  was  this  wholly  due  to  her  chance  embodiment 
of  law.  That  carried  weight,  of  course,  but  the  prime 
factor  in  her  unpopularity  was  a  stolid  cynicism  im- 
planted by  some  years'  prior  service  in  a  metropolitan 
police  station.  Joined  to  a  temperament  like  the 
superintendent's,  this  could  have  been  endured,  though 
detested ;  but  the  former  matron  of  a  "  sunrise  court " 
mixed  her  doubt  with  a  lumbering  joviality  against 
which  sincerity  beat  itself  in  vain.  Her  smile  was  a 
goad;  her  laugh  a  stinging  blow. 

The  revolt  turned  upon  an  old  grievance.  Break- 
fast was  a  scant  meal  in  the  prison,  and  the  laundry 
squad,  upon  which  the  severest  toil  fell,  had  for 
months  clamored  for  a  mid-forenoon  luncheon.  This 
request  was  reasonable,  but  an  intricate  knot  of  red 
tape,  understood  clearly  by  nobody,  had  balked  its 
granting,  and  the  matron  accordingly  reaped  a  whirl- 
wind which  others  had  sown.  All  the  week  it  threat- 
ened. On  Monday  perhaps  half  the  workers  in  the 
laundry,  headed  by  Stella  Wilkes,  repeated  the  old 
demand,  and  were  sent  about  their  business  with 
heavy  sarcasm. 

"Lunch,  is  it!"  drawled  the  matron,  with  her 
maddening  grin.  "Sure  it's  Vassar  College,  or  Bryn 
Mawr  maybe,  these  swells  think  they're  attendin' ! 
How  triggynomtry,  an'  dead  languidges,  an'  the 
pianoforty  do  tire  the  brain !  Wouldn't  you  find  a 


THE   CRUCIBLE  53 

club  sandwich  tasty,  young  ladies  ?  Or  a  paddy-de- 
foy-grass,  now?  Back  to  your  tubs!" 

Jean  took  no  part  in  the  demonstration,  and  as 
the  Wilkes  girl  returned  to  her  work  she  cursed  her 
for  a  chicken-hearted  coward.  Since  the  day  of  her 
rebuff  she  had  worn  her  enmity  like  a  chip  upon 
her  shoulder.  Jean  met  this,  as  she  now  met  every- 
thing, with  apathy.  Stella,  her  unlovely  associates 
bending  over  the  steaming  tubs,  the  nagging  matron 
—  one  and  all  had  their  being  in  an  unreal  world, 
a  nightmare  country,  which  must  be  stoically  endured 
until  the  awakening.  The  tomboy  had  become  a 
mystic. 

With  this  detachment  she  incuriously  watched  the 
rising  storm.  From  Tuesday  to  Thursday  the  unrest 
spent  itself  in  note-writing,  a  diversion,  following 
Rabelaisian  models  in  style,  which  was,  of  course, 
forbidden.  The  contraband  pencils  found  ingenious 
hiding-places,  however,  and  the  notes  themselves 
a  lively  circulation.  One  of  these  missives,  written 
by  Stella  and  mailed  with  a  scuttleful  of  fresh  coal 
in  the  laundry  stove,  fell  under  Jean's  eye  Thursday 
afternoon.  It  was  intended  for  another,  but  some 
delay  had  bungled  its  delivery,  and  the  flames  un- 
folded it  and  betrayed  its  secret.  Stella  saw  and 
pressed  close. 

"If  you  blab,  I'll  kill  you,"  she  threatened  hoarsely. 
"That's  straight." 

Jean  shrugged  her  away.  She  attached  no  weight 
to  the  scrawl's  ungrammatical  hints  of  violence. 


54  THE   CRUCIBLE 

Such  vaporings  were  as  common  as  they  were  idle. 
Nor  was  she  moved  when,  on  Friday,  during  recreation, 
the  matron's  alertness  checked,  though  it  failed  truly 
to  appraise,  a  catlike  dart  of  Stella's  to  the  rear. 
She  did  not  escape,  however,  a  certain  sympathetic 
share  in  the  tension  which  set  the  last  day  of  the 
week  apart  from  other  days.  The  nerves  of  a  re- 
formatory are  high-pitched.  To  be  always  dumb 
unless  bidden  to  speak,  forever  aware  of  a  spying  eye, 
eternally  the  slave  of  Yea  and  Nay  —  such  is  the 
common  lot.  Double  the  feeling  of  repression,  and 
you  get  the  prison  and  hysteria.  From  the  rising- 
bell,  Saturday,  till  she  slept  again,  Jean's  senses  were 
played  upon  by  vague  malign  influences.  All  felt 
them.  If  sleeve  brushed  sleeve,  a  scowl  followed; 
muttered  curses  sped  the  passing  of  every  dish  at 
meals;  and  in  the  stifling  night  some  one  raised  the 
heart-clutching  chant  against  the  matron.  This 
was  the  time  Jean  hailed  it  for  her  own. 

Sunday  brought  no  relief.  The  piping  heat  held 
unabated ;  hard  work,  the  week-day  safety-valve,  was 
lacking.  Only  the  matron  could  muster  a  smile. 
That  smile !  The  prison  file,  passing,  chapel  bound, 
in  Sunday  review,  felt  the  heat  hotter  and  life  more 
bitter  because  of  it.  The  eyes  of  one  girl  blinked 
nervously;  the  fingers  of  a  second  spread  clawlike, 
then  clenched;  the  jaws  of  another  set.  If  that 
woman  laughed  !  The  quadrangle  peopled  rapidly. 
Every  building  spun  its  blue-gray  thread  into  the 
paths.  The  earliest  comers  were  quite  at  the  chapel 


THE   CRUCIBLE  55 

steps  when  the  prison  girls,  issuing  from  their  frown- 
ing archway  last,  swung  reluctantly  into  the  treeless 
glare.  Their  smiling  matron  stood  just  within  the 
shadow,  looking  exasperatingly  cool  in  her  white 
linen,  and  outrageously  at  peace  with  herself  and  her 
smug,  well-ordered  world.  Then,  abruptly,  some 
trifle  —  perhaps  a  missing  button,  possibly  a  curl 
where  should  be  puritanic  simplicity,  nothing  more 
significant  —  loosed  her  sarcasm,  her  laugh  and 
revolt. 

A  cry,  different  from  the  midnight  defiance,  yet 
as  terrible,  burst  from  one  of  the  prison  girls.  Shrill, 
bird-like,  prolonged,  it  was  such  a  sound  as  the  tor- 
tured captive  at  the  stake  may  have  heard  from  the 
encircling  squaws.  It  was  well  known  in  the  refuge; 
decade  had  bequeathed  it  to  decade;  and  it  was 
always  the  signal  of  mutiny.  As  throat  after  throat 
took  it  up,  the  commands  of  the  matrons  became 
mere  angry  pantomime.  Rank  upon  rank  melted 
in  confusion,  and  the  mob,  lusting  for  violence, 
awaited  only  its  directing  fury. 

A  leader  rose.  Stella  had  secretly  fomented  this 
outbreak;  it  was  her  storm  to  ride  openly  if  she 
dared.  Yet  it  was  scarcely  a  question  of  daring. 
This  was  her  supreme  hour,  hers  by  right  of  might; 
and  had  another  seized  the  lead  she  would  have 
crushed  her.  With  black  locks  tumbled,  eyes  kindled, 
cheeks  afire,  wanting  only  the  scarlet  gear  of  anarchy 
to  cap  her  likeness  to  those  women  of  other  speech 
who  braved  barricades  like  men,  she  rallied  disorder 


56  THE   CRUCIBLE 

about  her  as  the  fiercer  flame  draws  the  less.  Her 
following  flocked  from  every  quarter  of  the  quad- 
rangle —  high-grade  girls,  girls  but  just  clear  of  the 
guardhouse;  the  mature  in  years,  the  tender;  the 
froward,  the  meek;  spawn  of  the  tenements,  way- 
ward from  the  farm;  beggars,  vagrants,  drunkards, 
felons,  wantons,  thieves.  Hysteria  answering  to 
hysteria,  madness  to  madness,  like  filings  to  the 
magnet  they  came,  and,  among  them,  Jean. 


And,  among  them,  Jean. 


VI 

STELLA  hailed  the  recruit  with  shrill  satisfaction, 
clutched  her  by  the  arm  lest  her  allegiance  falter, 
and  beckoned  on  her  amazons. 

"Smash  the  prison  first,"  she  screamed.  "We'll 
show  'enu" 

Back  into  the  grim  archway  they  swept,  a  frenzied, 
yelling  horde,  and  flung  themselves  into  a  fury  of 
destruction.  The  window-panes  crashed  first;  then 
followed  fusillades  of  crockery  from  dining-room 
and  kitchen.  Nothing  breakable  survived;  where 
glass  failed,  they  demolished  furniture;  lacking 
wood,  they  fell  upon  the  plumbing. 

Treading  close  in  Stella's  vandal  wake,  Jean  laid 
waste  right  and  left  with  hands  which  she  hazily 
perceived  were  but  mere  automata  under  another 
unknown  self's  control.  She  was  a  dual  being,  think- 
ing one  thing,  doing  its  opposite.  The  active  per- 
sonality disquieted  yet  fascinated  the  critical  real 
self,  and  she  realized,  half  dismayed,  that  if  Stella 
Wilkes  should  waver  in  her  leadership,  the  mad, 
alien  Jean  Fanshaw  would  in  all  likelihood  leap  to 
replace  her. 

But  Stella  harbored  no  thought  of  abdication.  Her 
reign  had  just  begun.  What  was  the  too  brief  in- 

57 


58  THE   CRUCIBLE 

terval  which  had  sufficed  to  wreck  the  hated  prison ! 
There  was  as  good  pillage  in  the  cottages,  she 
reminded  them;  better  still  in  the  administration 
buildings  and  the  chapel.  The  chapel  now !  What 
splendid  atrocities  they  could  wreak  upon  the  big 
organ !  And  after  the  chapel,  why  not  storm  the 
gatehouse  ?  What  were  a  handful  of  guards  !  The 
gatehouse  and  liberty !  Fired  with  this  dream  of 
conquest,  the  mob  armed  itself  with  scraps  of 
wreckage  and  trooped  back  to  the  entrance  to 
confront  a  thorough  surprise.  Bolted  doors  blocked 
their  triumphal  progress  —  bolted  doors  and  the 
matron,  calm,  resolute,  unarmed,  and  absolutely  alone. 

The  quadrangle,  too,  had  had  its  happenings. 
With  the  superintendent  absent,  her  assistant  ill, 
and  the  few  male  guards  at  the  gatehouse  but  mere 
creatures  of  routine,  wholly  incapable  of  the  general- 
ship which  the  crisis  demanded,  the  outbreak  could 
scarcely  have  been  more  effectively  timed;  yet  order 
somehow  issued  from  confusion.  Officials  acting 
separately  bundled  such  of  their  charges  as  had  not 
yielded  to  hysteria  into  the  cottages,  and  hurried 
back  to  cope  with  the  open  mutiny.  With  this  the 
prison  matron  demanded  the  right  to  deal.  It  had 
flamed  out  in  her  special  province;  it  was  hers  to 
quench  if  her  authority  was  to  mean  anything  there- 
after; and  she  stubbornly  declined  aid.  Not  even 
the  guards  might  enter  with  her;  she  would  meet  the 
situation  single-handed. 

The  rioters  faced  the  lonely  figure  stupidly.     Their 


THE   CRUCIBLE  59 

clamor  sank  to  whispers,  then  silence.  Their  eyes 
blinked  and  shifted  under  the  cold  survey  which 
passed  deliberately  from  girl  to  girl,  missing  none, 
condemning  all. 

Suddenly  the  matron  levelled  a  finger  at  a  weak- 
jawed  offender  in  the  van. 

"Drop  that  stick!"    she  commanded. 

The  culprit  sheepishly  complied. 

"You  too!"  She  indicated  the  next,  and  was 
again  obeyed.  In  the  rear  some  one  whispered. 

"Stella  Wilkes,  come  here." 

Habit  swayed  the  girl  a  step  forward  before  she 
realized  that  she  was  tamely  submitting,  but  she 
caught  herself  up  with  an  oath,  and  returned  stare 
for  stare. 

The  matron's  voice  sharpened. 

"Stella,"  she  repeated,  "come  here." 

The  rebel's  grip  upon  her  cudgel  tightened. 

"  Come  yourself,"  she  retorted.    "  Come  if  you  dast ! " 

The  matron  dared.  Force  rather  than  psychology 
had  ruled  the  police  station  of  her  schooling,  and  with 
the  loss  of  her  temper  she  reverted  instinctively  to  its 
crude  argument.  A  rush,  a  glint  of  handcuffs 
hitherto  concealed,  a  violent  brief  struggle,  a  blow, 
a  heavy  fall  —  such  were  the  kaleidoscopic  details  of 
a  battle  whose  whole  nobody  saw  perfectly,  but 
from  which  Stella,  the  mob  incarnate,  emerged  un- 
mistakably a  victor.  Moblike,  she  was  also  merci- 
less, and  continued  to  rain  blows  which  the  half- 
stunned  woman  at  her  feet  had  power  neither  to 


60  THE  CRUCIBLE 

return  nor  fend.  One  of  them  drew  blood,  a  scarlet 
thread,  which  by  fantastic  approaches  and  doublings 
traversed  the  matron's  now  pallid  cheek  and  stained 
the  whiteness  of  her  dress. 

It  was  then  Jean  woke.  She  was  no  longer  among 
the  foremost.  Separated  from  Stella  in  the  sack  of 
the  upper  floors,  she  had  fallen  late  upon  a  mirror 
of  the  matron's,  miraculously  preserved  till  her  com- 
ing, and  had  busied  herself  with  its  joyous  ruin  till 
the  others  had  surged  below  and  the  rencounter  at 
the  door  had  begun.  With  her  first  idle  moment 
apart  from  the  common  folly  she  experienced  reac- 
tion; one  glimpse  of  the  scene  below  effected  a  cure. 
She  loved  the  vanquished  as  little  as  the  victor,  but 
her  every  instinct  for  fair  play  and  decency  cried  out 
against  the  wanton  blows,  and  drove  her  hotly  through 
the  press  to  the  dazed  woman's  side. 

The  surprise  of  the  attack,  more  than  its  strength, 
disconcerted  Stella,  and  Jean  had  pulled  the  matron 
to  her  feet  before  retaliation  was  possible.  Nimble 
wits  likewise  counted  most  in  the  immediate  sequel. 
Quite  in  the  moment  of  her  charge  Jean  spied  a  coil 
of  fire-hose,  which,  used  not  half  an  hour  ago  for  the 
sake  of  coolness,  lay  still  connected  with  its  hydrant, 
and  its  possibilities  flashed  instantly  upon  her.  Be- 
fore the  ringleader's  slow  brain  could  divine  her  pur- 
pose she  had  thrust  the  nozzle  into  the  matron's  fin- 
gers and  sprung  to  release  the  flood.  Stella  saw 
the  advantages  of  this  neglected  weapon  now,  and 
plunged  to  capture  it,  but  a  stream  as  thick  as  a 


THE   CRUCIBLE  61 

man's  wrist  took  her  squarely  in  the  face  with  the 
pent  energy  of  a  long  descent  from  the  hills,  and 
brought  her  gasping  to  her  knees.  Before  she 
fairly  caught  her  breath  she  was  handcuffed 
and  helpless,  and  the  matron,  all  bustle  and  re- 
source with  the  turning  of  the  tide,  was  issuing 
crisp  orders  to  as  drenched,  frightened,  and  abjectly 
obedient  a  band  of  rebels  as  ever  made  uncondi- 
tional surrender. 

To  her  real  conqueror  Stella  at  least  made  full  and 
volcanic  acknowledgment.  The  guardhouse  alone 
stemmed  the  sulphurous  eruption  which  she  poured 
out  upon  Jean's  past,  present,  and  future;  and  the 
girls  who  heard  shivered  thankfully  that  another 
than  themselves  must  drag  out  existence  under  the 
blighting  fear  of  such  a  requital.  The  official  atti- 
tude was  more  dispassionate.  Barring  now  and 
again  a  puzzled  glance,  as  at  some  insoluble  riddle, 
the  matron  in  no  wise  singled  her  preserver  from  the 
common  run  of  mutineers  to  whom  she  meted  out 
added  rigors  and  penalties  for  their  offence.  Far 
from  hastening  her  return  to  cottage  life  by  her  service 
in  the  cause  of  law  and  order,  Jean  learned  that  she 
had  narrowly  escaped  doubling  her  prison  term,  and 
that  the  fact  that  the  good  in  her  conduct  had  been 
allowed  to  weigh  over  against  the  evil  was  deemed 
a  piece  of  extraordinary  clemency. 

Yet  even  if  that  brief  reign  of  unreason  had  added 
a  half-year  of  prison  to  the  six  months  which  a  brief 
interval  would  round,  its  lesson  would  not  have  been 


62  THE   CRUCIBLE 

dear-bought;  for,  as  she  had  returned  richer  by  a 
new  conception  of  her  womanhood  from  the  flight 
of  which  the  prison  was  the  price,  so  now  she  wrung 
sanity  from  her  yielding  to  madness.  It  terrified  her 
that  she  could  for  one  moment  have  become  like 
these  weak  pawns  in  an  incomprehensible  game, 
and  the  recoil  intrenched  her  in  a  fastness  of  self- 
control  such  as  her  girlhood  had  never  conceived. 
Happily  there  came  also  at  this  time  another  influ- 
ence no  less  wholesome  and  far-reaching. 

One  morning  of  early  winter  she  quitted  the  prison 
in  charge  of  a  clerk  from  the  superintendent's  office, 
who  led  the  way  to  Cottage  No.  6.  Jean's  heart 
sank  as  they  crossed  the  threshold.  In  the  optimism 
born  of  new  resolutions  she  had  hoped  for  a  different 
lot.  What  availed  new  resolutions  here !  But  she 
was  no  sooner  within  than  she  was  conscious  of  a 
changed  atmosphere.  Bare  as  they  were,  the  corri- 
dors seemed  less  institutional;  the  recreation  hall, 
glimpsed  in  passing,  smiled  an  almost  animate  greet- 
ing; while  th^  room  in  which  she  was  told  to  await 
the  cottage  matron's  leisure  resembled  the  room  it 
had  been  in  nothing  save  its  four  walls.  Amy  Jef- 
fries, dusting  the  window-seat  as  if  she  enjoyed  it,  was 
actually  humming. 

"Howdy!"  she  called.     "Welcome  home." 

Jean  lifted  a  warning  finger. 

"Somebody  will  hear,"  she  cautioned.  "Where 
will  be  your  high  grade  then  ?" 

Amy  grinned  broadly. 


THE   CRUCIBLE  63 

"Noticed  it,  did  you  ?"  She  pivoted  complacently 
before  a  mirror.  "Don't  I  look  for  all  the  world 
like  a  trained  nurse  ?  Can't  you  just  see  me  doing 
the  wedding  march  with  the  grateful  millionnaire 
I've  pulled  through  typhoid !  Glory,  but  I  am 
tickled  to  get  out  of  checks  !" 

Jean  was  vexed  at  her  folly. 

"You'll  get  into  them  again  mighty  quick  if  she 
hears,"  she  whispered.  "Don't  be  a  fool." 

"She!"  Amy  turned  to  stare.  "Well,  if  you're 
not  in  from  the  backwoods !  You  don't  mean  to  say 
you  haven't  heard  that  the  Holy  Terror  is  gone?" 

"Gone  ?     You  mean  — " 

"I  mean  g-o-n-e,  gone — cleared  out,  skipped, 
skedaddled.  Can't  you  understand  plain  English  ? 
I  thought  everybody  knew.  She  left  a  week  ago  to 
be  married." 

"Married!" 

"Ain't  it  the  limit  ?     Fancy  that  with  a  husband  !" 

Jean  tried,  but  failed.  Stupendous  as  it  was,  this 
marvel  paled  in  interest  beside  the  fact  that  Cottage 
No.  6  had  lost  its  martinet.  Small  wonder  the  house 
beamed. 

"And  the  new  matron  is  different?"    she  said. 

"Different!  Dif-  Amy  became  incoherent 
with  amusement.  "Say,  but  you  folks  in  the  jug 
have  been  exclusive  since  the  riot !  You  shouldn't 
be,  really  you  shouldn't.  You  miss  so  many  things, 
you  know.  There  was  the  Astor  ball,  and  the 
Vanderbilt  dinner,  and  the  swellest  little  supper  at 
Sherry's  I've  gone  to  this  seas  — " 


64  THE   CRUCIBLE 

All  Amy's  members  were  pinchable.  Jean  nipped 
the  nearest. 

"Has  something  happened,  or  hasn't  there?" 
she  demanded. 

"Would  I  be  talking  here  like  a  human  being,  not 
a  jailbird,  if  something  corking  hadn't  happened  ?" 
She  had  a  table  between  them  now.  "Why,  I 
wouldn't  be  high  grade  at  all.  There's  been  a  new 
deal  in  No.  6  with  a  vengeance.  You  couldn't  guess 
who's  matron  if  I  gave  you  all  day." 

Jean's  face  went  suddenly  radiant. 

"Not  Miss  Archer!" 

"You  smart  thing,"  said  Amy,  crestfallen. 

"Then  it's  true!  It's  really  true?"  The  news 
was  too  wonderful  for  credence.  "I  can't  make  it 
out." 

"Neither  can  I.  Why,  she's  even  come  over  here 
at  a  smaller  salary.  Ain't  that  a  puzzler  ?  I  know 
because  I  heard  her  talking  it  over  with  the  Supe  — 
the  Terror  had  chased  me  up  to  the  offices  on  an 
errand;  and  you  can  bet  I  listened  when  I  caught 
on  that  there  was  something  coming  for  No.  6.  As 
near  as  I  can  figure  it  out,  the  riot's  at  the  bottom  of 
it,  but  just  why  that  should  make  Miss  Archer  throw 
up  a  better  job  and  better  pay  to  camp  down  here 
beats  little  Amy.  I'm  no  rapping  medium." 

Where  Amy  failed,  Jean,  with  the  clairvoyance  of 
a  finer  nature,  presently  divined  the  truth.  It 
flashed  upon  her  at  the  end  of  an  hour  alone  with  the 
little  matron,  a  wonderful,  inspiring  hour  which 


THE   CRUCIBLE  65 

she  came  to  look  back  upon  as  crucial  —  a  forking 
of  the  ways  where  to  have  chosen  wrongly  would 
have  meant  to  miss  life's  best.  Yet  she  could  never 
take  it  apart;  its  texture  was  gossamer.  It  helped 
nothing  to  recall  that  the  talk  had  sprung  first  from 
one  or  another  of  the  room's  inanimate  objects  — 
some  cast,  book,  picture,  or  bit  of  pottery  —  whose 
sum  mirrored  Miss  Archer's  personality;  yet  one  of 
them  had  surely  been  the  key  to  a  Garden  of  the 
Spirit  where  common  things  underwent  magical 
transformations.  The  vague  longings  and  aspira- 
tions which  the  forest  meeting  had  sown,  seemed 
rank,  uncertain  growths  no  longer;  precious,  rather, 
and  infinitely  desirable. 

Jean  drew  a  long  breath  when  they  separated. 

"At  first  I  could  not  understand  why  you  came," 
she  said ;  "  but  it's  plain  now.  It  was  to  help  —  to 
help  girls  like  me." 


VII 

IT  was  during  the  second  spring  that  Mrs.  Fan- 
shaw  came.  Because  of  the  little  matron  Jean  had 
finally  broken  her  resolve  to  write  no  letters  home, 
whereupon  her  mother  accepted  the  change  as  a 
sign  of  repentance  which,  after  a  seemly  interval, 
she  decided  to  encourage  with  her  presence.  Jean 
was  keenly  expectant  of  the  promised  visit.  With 
the  shifting  of  her  whole  point  of  view  she  now 
blamed  herself  for  many  of  the  things,  so  petty  taken 
one  by  one,  so  serious  in  gross,  which  had  made  her 
home  life  what  it  was;  and  out  of  the  reaction  there 
welled  an  unguessed  tenderness  for  her  mother,  shy 
of  written  expression,  but  eager  to  confess  itself  in 
deed. 

The  official  who  brought  Jean  to  the  waiting-room 
and  remained  near  during  the  interview  need  not 
have  turned  a  tactful  back  upon  their  meeting  for 
Mrs.  Fanshaw's  sake.  That  lady  was  as  composed 
as  the  best  usage  of  Shawnee  Springs's  truly  genteel 
could  dictate  under  circumstances  so  untoward. 
Her  features  reflected  the  most  decorous  blend  of 
pious  resignation  and  parental  compassion  when  the 
slender  blue-and-white  figure  flung  itself  from  the 
doorway  into  her  arms,  and  she  permitted  the  peni- 

66 


THE   CRUCIBLE  67 

tent  to  remain  upon  the  bosom  of  her  best  alpaca  for 
an  appreciable  space  of  time  with  full  knowledge  that 
a  waterfall  of  lace,  divers  silken  bows,  and  a  long  gold 
chain  were  lamentably  crushed  by  the  impact. 

"Concentrate,  child,"  she  admonished  firmly. 
"  How  often  I've  told  you  to  aim  at  self-control  at  all 
times !" 

Jean  clung  to  her  in  a  passion  of  homesickness, 
hearing  nothing. 

"Mother!     Mother!"  she  repeated. 

Mrs.  Fanshaw  detached  herself,  repaired  the 
ravages,  and  turned  a  critical  eye  upon  her  daughter. 

"What  a  fright  they've  made  of  you !"  she  sighed. 
"The  color  of  that  dress  is  becoming  enough,  but 
the  pattern  !  What  haveyou  been  doingtoyourhair  ?" 

"My  hair?"  Jean  fingered  her  braid  vaguely. 
"Oh!  You  mean  at  the  front?  It  must  be  plain, 
you  know." 

"And  your  hands!  You  never  kept  them  like 
Amelia's,  but  now  —  why,  they  might  be  a  day- 
laborer's." 

"They  are,"   said  Jean. 

But  Mrs.  Fanshaw's  interest  had  fluttered  elsewhere. 

"I  can't  be  too  thankful  that  I  spared  Amelia  this 
ordeal,"  she  went  on.  "Amelia  was  anxious  to  come. 
She  said  she  felt  it  was  her  duty,  but  I  refused. 
She  is  so  sensitive  she  could  not  have  borne  it.  To 
see  her  own  sister  in  such  clothes  and  in  such  sur- 
roundings would  have  made  an  indelible  impression." 

Jean  now  had  herself  only  too  well  in  hand. 


68  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"I  dare  say  the  refuge  might  tarnish  Amelia's 
girlish  bloom,"  she  retorted  dryly.  "I  hope  you'll 
feel  no  bad  effects  yourself,  mother." 

"I'm  positive  I  shall,"  replied  Mrs.  Fanshaw, 
seriously.  "My  nerves  are  in  a  state  already.  But 
let  that  pass.  Whatever  the  cost,  I  should  have 
come  long  ago  if  your  behavior  had  been  always 
what  it  should.  I  could  not  come  while  you  hardened 
your  heart  against  God's  will.  Your  stubbornness 
in  the  beginning  —  they  wrote  me  fully,  Jean ; 
your  unwomanly  attempt  to  run  away;  that  shock- 
ing riot,  all  showed  — ' 

"That's  past,  mother." 

"Past,  yes;  but  not  forgotten.  Shawnee  Springs 
never  forgets  anything.  Your  escape  was  in  the 
papers.  I  wrote  you  all  that." 

"They  never  let  me  know.  Not  in  the  home 
papers,  the  county  papers?" 

"No."  Mrs.  Fanshaw  drew  herself  up.  "Con- 
sideration for  me  prevented  that  outrage.  The  edi- 
tors preserved  the  same  delicate  silence  that  they 
kept  when  you  were  arrested.  But  you  don't  seem 
to  remember  that  city  dailies  are  read  in  Shawnee 
Springs.  One  vile  sheet  even  printed  your  picture." 

The  girl's  face  crimsoned  painfully. 

"  Oh  ! "  she  cried  sharply.  "  How  could  they  ! 
Where  could  they  get  it?" 

Her  mother  hesitated. 

"Amelia  was  in  a  way  responsible,"  she  admitted. 
"She  was  naturally  anxious  at  your  disappearance, 


THE   CRUCIBLE  69 

and  when  a  nice-mannered  young  man  called  and 
said  that  if  he  had  your  description  he  could  help  in 
the  search,  the  dear  girl  received  him  with  open 
arms.  How  could  she  know  he  was  a  reporter!" 

"She  gave  that  man  my  picture!" 

"Like  a  trusting  child.  Amelia  has  felt  all  our 
trouble  so  keenly.  For  weeks  after  you  were  sent 
away  she  could  scarcely  look  one  of  her  set  in  the 
face.  She  said  she  felt  like  a  refuge  girl  herself. 
I  had  to  appeal  to  our  pastor  to  make  her  see  that 
neither  of  us  was  to  blame.  She  shrank  from  the 
world  even  then,  but  the  world  came  to  her." 

"Meaning  Harry  Fargo  ?"  queried  Jean,  emerging 
suddenly  from  the  gloom  induced  by  Amelia's  im- 
becility. 

"Harry  was  particularly  sweet,"  admitted  Mrs. 
Fanshaw,  archly.  "In  fact,  he  has  become  a  son  to 
me  in  everything  but  name.  If  Amelia  would  only  — 
but  I  mustn't  gossip." 

Jean  smiled  without  mirth. 

"I  think  she'll  land  him,"  she  encouraged. 

Her  mother  frowned. 

"What  a  common  expression!"  she  rebuked.  "I 
thought  at  first  I  noticed  an  improvement  in  your 
language.  Your  voice  is  certainly  better  —  much 
lower.  It's  the  prison  discipline,  I  presume.  But 
speaking  of  Harry,  I  really  think  we  may  regard  it  as, 
well,  reasonably  sure.  I  must  say  I'm  pleased. 
Harry  is  so  eligible." 

Jean  silently  reviewed  young  Mr.  Fargo's  points; 


70  THE   CRUCIBLE 

athlete  second  to  none  in  the  gymnasium  of  the  local 
Y.  M.  C.  A. ;  gifted  with  a  tenor  voice  particularly 
effective  at  church  festivals  in  ballads  of  tee-total 
sentiment;  heir  presumptive  to  a  mineral  spring,  a 
retail  coal  business,  and  a  seat  in  the  directorate  of 
the  First  National  Bank;  clearly  destined,  in  fine, 
to  bloom  one  of  the  solid  men  of  his  community. 
Joined  to  these  virtues,  present  and  prospective,  he 
seemed  sincerely,  if  not  ardently,  fond  of  Amelia, 
and  Jean  with  her  whole  heart  wished  her  sister's 
long-drawn-out  wooing  godspeed. 

Perhaps  she  couched  this  less  happily  than  she 
might.  At  all  events,  Mrs.  Fanshaw  took  warm- 
offence  at  some  allusion  to  the  suitor's  leisured  siege. 

"Under  the  circumstances,"  she  remarked  se- 
verely, "it's  a  wonder  his  attentions  have  continued 
at  all.  No  eligible  young  man  in  Shawnee  Springs 
can  be  expected  to  want  a  sister-in-law  whose  name 
everybody  mentions  in  the  same  breath  with  Stella 
Wilkes's,  and  you  know  the  Fargo  family  is  as  proud 
as  Lucifer.  I  don't  see  that  they  have  any  call  to 
set  themselves  up  as  they  do  —  the  Tuttles  were 
landowners  in  the  county  twenty  years  before  a 
Fargo  was  heard  of;  but  there  is  certainly  some 
excuse  for  their  standing  off  about  Amelia.  You 
don't  seem  to  appreciate  how  painful  her  situation 
has  been.  People  were  only  just  pitching  on  some- 
thing else  to  talk  about  after  you  went,  when  you 
stirred  the  scandal  up  again  by  running  away.  That 
nearly  spoiled  everything.  I  had  it  on  the  best  of 


THE   CRUCIBLE  71 

authority  —  Mrs.  Fargo's  dressmaker  is  mine  now  — 
that  Harry  and  his  father  actually  came  to  words. 
Then,  to  cap  the  climax,  we'd  no  sooner  settled  down 
in  peace  than  the  vulgar  riot  happened.  Nobody 
knew  positively  whether  you  were  implicated,  but 
they  naturally  judged  you  were,  and  of  course  I 
couldn't  conscientiously  deny  it  when  they  asked 
me  point  blank.  It  has  been  terrible  —  ter- 
rible." 

Jean  was  swept  away  upon  the  flood  of  egotism. 
She  forgot  that  she  too  had  a  point  of  view.  Their 
wrongs  were  the  great  wrongs. 

"Fm  sorry,"  she  said  humbly.  "It's  true  I  didn't 
realize.  I  don't  want  to  stand  in  Amelia's  way. 
You  won't  have  reason  to  complain  again  while  I 
am  here." 

"I  don't  expect  I  shall.  I  can't  conceive  of 
another  thing  you  could  be  up  to,  even  if  your  dis- 
position to  consider  our  feelings  a  little  should 
change.  If  they'll  only  marry  before  your  term 
expires !" 

Jean's  lips  tightened. 

"There's  almost  a  year  and  a  half  yet,"  she  said 
grimly.  "Surely  that's  time  enough." 

"It  would  be  for  anybody  but  a  Fargo,"  sighed  her 
mother.  "They're  slow  at  everything.  We  can 
only  hope  and  wait.  It's  been  very  hard." 

"I'll  try  not  to  make  it  more  so  afterward,"  Jean 
returned.  "I  suppose  I  must  go  back  to  the  Springs 
at  first.  When  a  girl  goes  out  they  take  her  — 


72  THE   CRUCIBLE 

home.     But  I'll  not  stay.      I'll  go  away  at  once." 

"  Go  away  !  There  are  none  of  the  relatives  you 
can  visit.  The  Tuttles  all  feel  the  disgrace  as  if  it 
were  their  own.  As  for  your  father's  folks  - 

"I  don't  mean  to  visit.  I  mean  to  work  —  to 
live." 

Mrs.  Fanshaw  focussed  her  parochial  mind  upon 
this  outlandish  suggestion,  assuming,  as  was  her 
habit  with  novel  impressions,  an  air  of  truculent 
disapproval. 

"Perhaps  you  still  think  you  can  gallivant  about 
the  country  like  a  man?"  she  remarked. 

"No.  I've  got  over  that.  I  shall  find  some 
woman's  work." 

"You  mean  you'll  cook,  scrub,  do  the  servant's 
drudgery  you've  learned  here  ?  That  would  be  a 
nice  tale  to  go  the  rounds  of  the  Springs !" 

"I  would  cook  or  scrub  if  I  had  to,  but  I've  been 
taught  other  things.  One  of  the  girls  who's  leaving 
this  fall  —  her  name  is  Amy  Jeffries  —  knew  no 
more  about  earning  a  living  than  I  when  she  came 
here,  but  she  has  an  eight-dollar-a-week  place  wait- 
ing for  her  in  New  York.  She's  going  with  a  ready- 
made  cloak  firm.  It  was  Miss  Archer  who  got  her 
the  place,  and  she  says  when  the  time  comes  she  can 
probably  do  as  well  by  me." 

"New  York!"  Mrs.  Fanshaw  shied  with  rural 
timidity  from  the  fascinating  name.  "You  in  New 
York !  I  must  get  Amelia's  opinion.  What  if  it 
should  prove  a  way  out!" 


THE   CRUCIBLE  73 

During  the  remainder  of  the  call  the  talk  strayed 
mainly  in  a  maze  of  Shawnee  Springs  gossip  which 
Jean  followed  in  a  lethargy  beneath  which  throbbed 
an  ache.  She  had  grown  to  value  her  home,  not  for 
what  it  had  been,  but  for  what  it  might  be,  and  to 
realize  that  it  was  beyond  doubt  the  more  a  home 
without  her,  cut  deep.  Mrs.  Fanshaw  had  ampu- 
tated an  ideal. 

It  in  no  way  eased  the  smart  to  feel  that  her  mother 
intended  no  downright  brutality.  Indeed,  as  Jean 
did  her  the  justice  to  perceive,  she  tried  in  her  clumsy 
way  to  be  kind.  She  reverted  again  to  the  agreeable 
change  in  the  girl's  voice,  approved  her  quieter 
manner,  and,  looking  closer,  even  discerned  a  neat- 
ness in  general  upon  which  she  bestowed  measured 
praise.  It  was  in  the  midst  of  these  final  note-tak- 
ings that  she  detected  her  daughter  in  a  vain  attempt 
to  conceal  some  object  in  the  folds  of  a  pocketless 
dress. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  she  demanded  in  abrupt 
suspicion.  "What  are  you  hiding  from  me?" 

The  girl  started. 

"Nothing,"  she  said  evasively. 

"Nothing!     You  were  always  truthful  at  least." 

"I  mean  nothing  important." 

Mrs.  Fanshaw  laid  a  firm  grasp  upon  the  shrink- 
ing hand,  and  dragged  its  secret  to  light. 

"Embroidery!"  she  exclaimed. 

Jean's  cheeks  were  poppies. 

"Yes,"  she  faltered. 


74  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"Whose  is  it?" 

"Mine." 

The  reluctant  monosyllables  whipped  Mrs.  Fan- 
shaw's  curiosity  wide  awake. 

"No  more  nonsense,"  she  charged.  "Tell  me 
at  once  who  gave  you  this." 

"Nobody,"  confessed  Jean  faintly.  "I  —  I  made 
it." 

"You!"  A  pair  of  glasses,  black-rimmed  and 
formidable,  bore  instantly  upon  the  marvel  and 
searched  it  stitch  by  stitch. 

Jean  waited  breathless.  Wrought  with  infinite 
labor  not  of  the  hands  alone,  the  little  piece  of  needle- 
work was  absurdly  freighted  with  meaning.  In  the 
old  days  she  had  loathed  such  employment  as  ar- 
dently as  her  sister  loved  it,  but  of  late  she  had  set 
herself  doggedly  to  learn  the  art,  since  it  seemed  to 
her  that  this  more  than  anything  else  would  typify 
her  new  outlook,  her  return  to  sex.  As  such  a 
symbol  she  had  brought  her  handiwork  into  the 
visitors'  room.  As  such,  before  their  meeting,  she 
had  hoped  her  mother  might  interpret  it.  Even 
now,  bereft  of  illusions  as  she  was,  she  still  hoped 
something,  she  knew  not  what. 

In  fairness  to  Mrs.  Fanshaw  it  should  be  recorded 
that  she  apparently  grasped  some  hint  of  this. 
Relatively  speaking,  her  smile  was  encouraging. 
Viewed  from  her  own  standpoint,  she  all  but  scaled 
the  top  note  of  praise  when,  extending  the  em- 
broidery at  last,  she  said,  — 


THE   CRUCIBLE  75 

"It  is  almost  as  good  as  Amelia's." 

The  new  Jean  was  still  no  candidate  for  sainthood. 
White  to  the  lips  with  anger,  she  caught  the  emblem 
of  her  regeneration  from  Mrs.  Fanshaw's  profaning 
hand  and  tore  it  to  little  strips. 


VIII 

THENCEFORWARD  Jean  dreaded  nothing  so  much 
as  any  return  to  Shawnee  Springs  whatsoever. 
Here,  for  once,  she  found  herself  in  perfect  accord 
with  her  mother,  for,  as  the  time  of  her  release  drew 
near,  young  Mr.  Fargo's  sauntering  courtship  took 
a  sudden  spurt,  not  clearly  explicable  to  himself, 
whose  prime  and  bewildering  result  was  the  fixing 
of  his  wedding  day. 

Dear  Amelia  naturally  longed  for  her  sister's 
presence  at  the  culmination  of  her  happiness  (so 
Mrs.  Fanshaw  put  it),  but  there  were  the  Fargos  to 
consider  —  they  were  not  cordial,  by  the  way  - 
and  if  the  refuge  authorities  made  no  objection,  would 
it  not  perhaps  be  better  if  she  met  the  official  having 
Jean  in  charge  at  some  intermediate  point,  from 
which  she  could  proceed  at  once  to  her  new  calling  ? 
Jean,  she  was  convinced,  would  understand. 

Jean  understood  very  well,  but  was  thankful. 
She  would  rather  serve  another  month  in  the  refuge 
than  be  an  unwelcome  guest  at  Amelia's  marriage. 
In  truth,  had  she  been  put  to  a  choice,  she  would 
have  elected  further  confinement  to  her  mother's 
roof  in  any  case.  She  thought  of  the  reformatory, 
not  Shawnee  Springs,  as  home,  and  this  in  a  sense 

76 


THE   CRUCIBLE  77 

which  embraced  more  than  Miss  Archer  and  the 
transformed  Cottage  No.  6.  She  loathed  the  life  no 
less  than  in  the  beginning,  but  time  had  knit  her  to 
its  every  phase.  The  cowed,  drab  ranks  had  long 
since  ceased  to  seem  alien.  Their  deprivations,  their 
meager  privileges,  their  rights,  their  wrongs,  their 
sorrows,  their  spectral  gayeties,  all  were  hers.  She 
had  thought  to  dart  from  the  gatehouse  like  a  wild 
thing  from  a  trap.  In  reality  she  paused  to  look  back 
with  a  lump  in  her  throat. 

Yet  it  was  a  blithe  world  outside,  the  fog  and  gloom 
of  a  November  rain  notwithstanding.  Even  the 
wet  glisten  of  the  mire  seemed  cheery.  A  hundred 
trivialities,  unheeded  by  her  companion,  absorbed  her 
unjaded  eyes.  The  red  and  green  liquids  of  a  drug- 
gist's window  lured  her  as  in  childhood;  then  the 
glitter  of  a  toy-shop  enticed,  or  the  ruddy  invitation 
-of  a  forge.  Station  and  train  were  each  a  mine  of 
entertainment.  The  ticket-buying  was  an  event  of 
the  first  magnitude;  the  slot-machines,  the  time- 
tables, the  news-stands,  the  advertisements,  all  the 
prosaic  human  spectacle  had  the  freshness  of  novelty. 
She  noted  that  women's  sleeves  had  a  fullness  of 
which  the  little  tailor-shop  in  the  refuge  was  but 
dimly  aware;  that  men's  hats  curled  closer  at  the 
brim;  that  the  trainmen  wore  a  different  uniform; 
that  one  rural  depot  or  another  had  received  a  coat 
of  paint. 

Mrs.  Fanshaw  was  in  waiting. 

"There's  a  train  back  to  the  Springs  in  twenty 


78  THE   CRUCIBLE 

minutes,"  she  announced  briskly,  after  a  preoccu- 
pied dab  at  Jean's  cheek,  "and  under  the  circum- 
stances" -she  was  always  under  circumstances  — 
"I  know  you  won't  mind  if  I  take  it  instead  of  wait- 
ing till  your  own  goes  out.  What  with  presents 
arriving,  the  dressmaker,  and  the  snobbish  behavior 
of  Harry's  family,  I  expect  as  it  is  to  find  Amelia 
on  the  edge  of  nervous  prostration.  Every  minute 
is  precious,  we're  so  rushed.  In  fact,  I  could  not 
find  time  to  pack  a  single  stitch  for  you  to  take  to 
New  York.  Anyhow,  I  understood  from  your  last 
letter  that  the  refuge  would  fit  you  out  with  the 
necessaries,  which  is  certainly  a  help  at  this  time 
when  I'm  paying  out  right  and  left  for  Amelia. 
Why,"  she  wound  up  suddenly,  "your  suit  is  actually 
tailor-made !" 

"Yes,"  said  Jean. 

"Excellent  material,  too,"  commented  Mrs.  Fan- 
shaw,  fingering  the  texture.  "Does  every  girl  fare 
as  well?" 

"The  low-grade  girls  get  no  jackets,  only  capes; 
and  their  material  isn't  so  good." 

"Then  you're  high  grade  !     You  never  wrote  me." 

"  I  did  not  think  it  would  interest  Shawnee  Springs." 

Mrs.   Fanshaw  looked   aggrieved. 

"You  are  a  strange  child,"  she  complained;  "so 
secretive,  so  self-centered.  I  suppose  your  suit  was 
made  in  the  refuge  ?" 

"Yes." 

"By  one  of  the  inmates?" 


THE   CRUCIBLE  79 

"By  one  of  the  inmates  —  myself." 

"  Strange  child  ! "  said  her  mother  again.  "  Strange 
child!"  ' 

Linked  by  nothing  save  a  distasteful  past,  they  sat 
together  for  an  interval  in  constrained  silence.  Even 
at  their  friendliest,  mother  and  daughter  had  lacked 
conversational  small  change.  Presently  Mrs.  Fan- 
shaw's  roving  eye  encountered  the  dial  of  a  train- 
indicator  and  brightened. 

"The  Shawnee  Springs  accommodation  is  on  time 
for  once,"  she  announced. 

Jean  responded  with  sincerity  that  she  was  glad. 
That  her  own  train  was  as  plainly  registered  an  hour 
late,  with  the  equally  obvious  consequence  that  she 
must  arrive  after  nightfall  in  a  strange  city,  was 
unimportant. 

Mrs.  Fanshaw  opened  her  hand-bag. 

"  Here  is  the  price  of  your  ticket  to  New  York," 
she  said,  counting  out  the  exact  fare.  "You  had 
better  buy  it  at  once." 

Jean  did  so.  When  she  returned  from  the  ticket- 
office  her  mother  was  smoothing  the  creases  from  a 
bank-note. 

"Did  they  supply  you  with  any  money  ?"  she  asked 
cautiously. 

"With  two  dollars." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"They  paid  my  fare  here." 

"How  niggardly  in  a  great  state  !  I  can  spare  you 
so  little  myself.  But  you  will  begin  work  at  once  ?" 


8o  THE  CRUCIBLE 

"To-morrow  morning." 

"Then  ten  dollars  ought  to  answer  until  you  draw 
your  first  earnings,  if  you  are  not  extravagant." 

"I  shan't  stop  at  the  Waldorf,"  promised  Jean, 
grimly.  She  took  the  bill,  as  she  had  taken  the  money 
for  the  ticket,  without  thanks,  saying  only,  "I  will 
pay  it  back." 

Another  blank  silence  fell.  Mrs.  Fanshaw  stirred 
restively. 

"I  hope  that  Jeffries  girl  can  be  depended  on  to 
meet  you,"  she  presently  remarked. 

"I  think  she  can." 

"It's  certainly  a  convenience  to  know  somebody 
at  the  start,  but  I  don't  feel  that  she  is  a  very  desirable 
associate,  whatever  Miss  Archer  thinks.  You  can 
drop  her  later,  of  course,  whenever  it  seems  best." 

"Drop  her!" 

Mrs.  Fanshaw  jumped  at  the  vehemence  of  the 
exclamation. 

"How  abrupt  you  are!  What  I  mean  to  say  is 
that  you  will  hardly  want  to  keep  up  these  reforma- 
tory acquaintances.  If  I  were  you  I  should  make 
it  a  rule  to  recognize  none  of  them  you  can  by  hook 
or  crook  avoid.  Possibly  this  girl  is  superior  to  most 
of  her  class.  I  don't  think  you  ever  mentioned  just 
why  she  was  sent  to  the  refuge  ?" 

Jean's  eyes  discharged  an  angry  spark. 

"You're  quite  right,"  she  retorted.  "I  never 
have." 

Mrs.    Fanshaw   was    still    waiting    in    becoming 


THE  CRUCIBLE  81 

patience  for  Jean  to  repair  this  omission  when  her 
train  was  announced.  They  rose  and  faced  each 
other  awkwardly. 

"Well,  good-by,"  said  the  elder  woman,  present- 
ing her  cheek. 

"Well,  good-by,"  said  Jean. 

She  watched  her  mother  into  a  car,  and  through 
successive  windows  traced  her  bustling  progress  to  a 
seat.  Mrs.  Fanshaw  found  no  leisure  for  a  last 
glance  outward,  and  Jean,  by  aid  of  certain  sharply 
etched  memories,  divined  that  she  was  absorbed  in 
repelling  seatmates.  So  occupied,  she  vanished. 
Jean  could  have  cried  with  ease,  but  sternly  denied 
herself  the  luxury.  She  yet  retained  something  of 
her  old  boy-like  intolerance  of  the  tear-duct,  though 
the  refuge,  acquainting  her  with  nerves,  had  dulled 
the  confident  edge  of  her  scorn.  Tears,  she  now 
perceived,  like  tea,  had  uses  for  women  other  than 
purely  physical. 

Happily  life's  common  things  still  wore  a  bloom 
of  surpassing  freshness  for  her  cloistered  eye.  This 
second  station,  like  yet  unlike  the  first;  the  tardy 
train,  thundering  importantly  in  at  last;  the  stirring 
flight  into  the  unknown,  each  served  its  diverting 
turn.  As  dusk  settled,  the  landscape  became  in- 
creasingly littered  with  signs  trumpeting  the  virtues 
of  breakfast  foods,  women's  wear,  or  plays  current 
in  the  metropolitan  theatres ;  while  the  villages  grew 
smarter  in  pavement  and  lighting  till  she  mistook 
one  or  two  for  near  suburbs  of  the  great  city  itself. 
G 


82  THE   CRUCIBLE 

Then  the  open  spaces  grew  rare.  Did  the  semblance 
of  a  field  survive,  it  was  gridironed  by  streets  of  the 
future  or  sprawled  upon  by  huge  factories,  formless 
leviathans  of  a  thousand  gleaming  eyes.  Town 
linked  itself  to  town. 

When  they  had  run  for  a  long  time  within  what 
she  knew  must  be  the  limits  of  the  city  itself,  a  brake- 
man  mouthed  some  unintelligible  remark  from  the 
door,  and  the  train  came  to  a  stop.  Jean  caught 
up  her  bag,  but  observing  that  a  drummer  of  flirta- 
tious propensities,  who  for  an  hour  past  had  shared 
her  seat,  made  no  move,  was  left  in  doubt. 

"Isn't  this  New  York?"  she  asked. 

Her  seatmate  surveyed  her  facetiously. 

"Some  of  it,"  he  said.  "Want  any  particular 
part  of  the  village  ?" 

"The  main  station,"  blushed  the  provincial. 

"You  mean  the  Grand  Central.  Sit  tight  then. 
This  is  only  a'  Hundred-and-twenty-fifth  Street  — 
Harlem,  you  know,  where  the  goat  joke  flourishes. 
Never  saw  a  billy  there  myself,  and  I  boarded  a  year 
on  Lenox  Avenue,  too." 

Jean  turned  from  a  disquisition  on  boarding-houses 
to  the  car-window.  In  its  night-time  glitter  of  elec- 
tricity the  street  which  he  dismissed  with  a  careless 
numeral  quite  fulfilled  her  rural  notion  of  Broadway. 
If  these  were  but  the  outposts,  what  was  the  thing 
itself! 

They  shot  a  tunnel  presently,  which  the  drummer 
berated  in  terms  long  since  made  familiar  by  the 


THE   CRUCIBLE  83 

newspapers,  threaded  a  maze  of  block-signals  and 
switch-lights,  and  halted  at  last  in  an  enormous 
cavern  of  a  place  which  she  needed  no  hint  from  her 
now  too  friendly  neighbor  to  assure  her  was  truly 
New  York. 

The  drummer  urged  his  escort,  but  she  eluded  him 
in  leaving  the  car  and  hurried  on  in  the  press.  Near- 
ing  the  gate,  however,  her  pace  slackened.  The  big- 
ness of  the  train-shed  confused  her,  and  she  was 
daunted  by  the  clamor  of  hackmen  and  street-cars 
which  penetrated  from  without.  Amy  had  written 
that  she  would  meet  her  if  she  could  leave  her  work, 
but  Jean  could  spy  her  nowhere  in  the  waiting 
crowd  banked  in  the  white  glare  of  the  arc-lights 
beyond  the  barrier.  They  were  unfamiliar  to  the 
last  pallid  urban  face. 

She  had  gone  slowly  down  the  human  aisle  and 
was  wavering  on  the  outskirts,  uncertain  whether  to 
wait  longer  or  adventure  for  herself,  when  the 
drummer  reappeared  at  her  elbow. 

"Didn't  your  party  show  up?"  he  said.  "I  call 
that  a  mean  trick.  You  had  better  let  me  help  you 
out,  after  all.  You  look  like  a  girl  with  sand. 
What  say  we  give  'em  a  lesson  ?  We  can  have  supper 
at  a  nice,  quiet  little  place  I  know  up  the  street, 
take  in  a  show  afterward,  and  then  when  we're 
good  and  ready  hunt  up  your  slow-coach  friends. 
Is  it  a  go  ?" 

She  looked  every  way  but  toward  him,  saw  a 
policeman,  and  aimed  forthwith  for  the  shelter  of 


84  THE   CRUCIBLE 

his  uniform.  Halfway  she  felt  her  hand  seized, 
turned  hotly,  expecting  the  drummer,  and  plumped 
joyfully  into  the  arms  of  a  young  person  of  fashion 
who  greeted  her  with  an  ecstatic  hug. 

"Amy!     I  was  never  so  glad  to  see  you!" 

The  girl  emerged  from  the  embrace,  panting. 

"I  really  think  you  are,"  she  said.  "Sorry  to 
keep  you  waiting.  There  was  a  block  on  the  'L.' 
What  was  that  fellow  saying  to  you  ?" 

When  Jean  had  told  her  she  peered  eagerly  into 
the  crowd. 

"I  find  blond  hair  lets  you  in  for  a  lot  of  that," 
she  commented.  "He  was  a  traveling  man,  you 
say?" 

"I  think  so." 

"Sort  of  sandy,  with  a  reddish  mustache  ?  I  could 
only  see  his  back." 

"  Sandy  ?    I'm  not  sure.    I  avoided  looking  at  him." 

Amy  was  silent  while  they  passed  to  the  street, 
and  continued  to  scan  the  faces  about  her.  When 
they  had  wormed  into  a  street-car  packed  with 
standing  women  and  seated  men  she  spoke  again  of 
Jean's  adventure. 

"Did  he  say  what  line  of  goods  he  was  carrying  ?" 
she  asked. 

"No,"  Jean  answered  indifferently.  The  spec- 
tacle of  the  pavement  without  had  already  ousted  the 
drummer  from  her  thoughts. 

"Or  where  he  lived?" 

"Where  he  lived?"     She  turned  now  and  saw 


THE  CRUCIBLE  85 

that  the  girl's  eyes  were  very  bright.  "He  men- 
tioned that  he  had  boarded  here  somewhere  — • 
Harlem,  was  it  ?" 

"Harlem!"  Amy's  pink  cheeks  turned  rose-red. 
"And  did  he  have  a  scar,  a  little  white  scar,  near  his 
eyebrow  ?" 

"I  didn't  notice/' 

"I  wish  you  had." 

Jean  eyed  her  narrowly. 

"I  wish  I  had,  too,  if  it  matters  so  much,"  she 
returned. 

Amy  donned  a  mask  of  transparent  indifference. 

"Of  course  it  doesn't  matter,"  she  said.  "At  first 
I  thought  it  might  be  somebody  I  used  to  know." 


IX 

THEY  alighted  at  a  kind  of  wooded  island,  girt  by 
trolley  lines  and  crisscrossed  by  many  paths,  along 
one  of  which  they  struck.  Although  it  was  No- 
vember, the  benches  by  the  way  frequently  held 
slouching  forms,  sodden  men  or  unkempt  women,  at 
whom  none  glanced  save  a  fat  policeman.  Neigh- 
boring electric  signs  lit  the  lower  end  of  the  little 
park  brilliantly,  and  here,  cheek  by  jowl  with  restau- 
rant, vaudeville,  and  saloon,  Jean  suddenly  spied  an 
august  figure  with  which  school-history  woodcuts 
had  made  her  familiar  from  pinafores. 

"Why,  this  is  Union  Square!"  she  cried  tri- 
umphantly. "I  know  it  by  Washington's  statue 
over  there.  And  this  street  we're  coming  to  must  be 
Broadway." 

"You're  not  so  slow,"  said  Amy,  halting  at  the 
curb.  "Here's  another  chance  to  show  your  speed. 
Mind  you  step  lively  when  I  see  a  chance."  In  the 
same  breath  she  dragged  her  charge  into  a  narrowing 
gap  between  two  street-cars,  dodged  a  truck,  circled 
a  push-cart,  and  issued  miraculously,  safe  and 
sound,  upon  the  farther  side. 

They  traversed  now  a  street  of  entrancing  shop- 
windows  over  which  Jean  exclaimed,  but  which  Amy 

86 


THE  CRUCIBLE  87 

in  her  sophistication  dismissed  with  the  brief  com- 
ment that  the  real  thing  was  elsewhere.  With  the 
same  careless  unconcern  she  dropped,  "This  is  Fifth 
Avenue,"  at  their  next  crossing;  but  she  immediately 
discounted  Jean's  awe  by  adding,  "Not  the  swell 
section,  you  know,"  and  hurried  from  its  unworthy 
precincts  toward  an  avenue  which  the  elevated  rail- 
road bestrode.  This,  too,  was  wonderfully  curious, 
with  its  countless  little  shops  and  stalls,  but  Amy 
allowed  her  a  mere  taste  of  it  only  and  whipped 
round  a  corner  into  a  dimly  lit  street  of  dwellings, 
each  with  a  scrap  of  a  dooryard  tucked  behind  an 
iron  fence. 

As  they  mounted  the  high  steps  of  one  of  these 
houses,  Jean  remarked  with  due  respect  that  it  was 
unmistakably  a  brownstone  front  —  a  species  of  met- 
ropolitan grandeur  upon  which  untravelled  Shawnee 
Springs  often  speculated  vaguely;  though  its  dilapi- 
dation, obvious  even  by  night,  helped  to  put  her  at  her 
ease.  A  placard  inscribed,  "Furnished  Rooms  and 
Board,"  held  a  prominent  station  in  one  of  the  base- 
ment windows,  which  was  further  adorned  with  a 
strange  symbol  upon  red  pasteboard,  explained  by 
Amy,  while  they  waited,  as  a  mute  appeal  to  a  certain 
haughty  city  official  whose  business  was  the  collection 
of  garbage. 

"The  landlady's  name  is  St.  Aubyn,"  Amy  further 
imparted;  "or  at  any  rate  that's  what  she  goes  by. 
She's  the  grass-widow  of  an  actor.  Some  people  say 
her  real  name  is  Haggerty,  but  that  needn't  bother 


88  THE   CRUCIBLE 

us.     We  can't  afford  to  be  finicky,  or  at  least  I  can't." 

"Nor  I,"  agreed  Jean. 

Mrs.  St.  Aubyn,  who  at  this  juncture  opened  the 
door  in  person,  looked  a  weary-eyed  woman  of  fifty- 
odd,  in  whose  face  still  lingered  some  melancholy 
vestiges  of  charm.  She  greeted,  without  enthusiasm, 
Amy's  buoyant  announcement  that  she  had  brought 
her  a  new  boarder,  saying  that,  although  she  had  no 
complaint  to  make  of  Miss  Jeffries  and  supposed  she 
should  get  on  equally  well  with  her  friend,  on  the 
whole  she  preferred  men. 

"They  all  do,"  cried  Amy,  in  mock  dudgeon. 
"  Every  blessed  boarding-house  in  New  York  prefers 
men." 

The  actor's  grass-widow  did  not  question  this  sweep- 
ing statement,  evidently  deeming  it  a  truism  which 
needed  neither  explanation  nor  defence,  but  went 
on  to  say  that  inasmuch  as  Miss  Jeffries  already 
knew  the  rooms  and  prices,  and^since  she  herself  was 
dog-tired,  and  the  turnips  were  burning,  and  the 
cream-puffs  had  not  come,  and  one  could  not  trust 
the  best  of  servants  beyond  one's  nose,  she  would 
leave  them  to  themselves,  all  of  which  she  delivered 
with  dwindling  breath,  backing  meanwhile  toward 
the  basement  stair,  till  voice  and  speaker  vanished 
together. 

"  Don't  mind  her  little  ways,"  consoled  Amy,  lead- 
ing the  way  upward.  "She  is  really  tickled  to  death 
to  see  you.  The  elevator's  out  of  order,"  she  added 
facetiously,  "  but  I'm  on  the  first  floor  —  counting 


THE   CRUCIBLE  89 

from  the  roof  down.  A  good  place  it  is,  too,  on  hot 
summer  nights  when  breezes  are  scarce." 

She  showed  the  narrow  rear  hall-bedroom  she  now 
occupied;  a  rather  bigger  cell,  deriving  its  ventila- 
tion solely  from  a  skylight,  which  Jean  might  have  at 
the  same  price;  and,  finally,  in  enviable  contrast,  a 
really  spacious  chamber  at  the  front,  possessing  no 
less  than  three  windows,  —  dormers,  it  was  true,  yet 
windows,  —  a  generous  closet,  and  a  steam-radiator, 
all  within  their  united  means  did  they  care  to  room 
together.  Amy  tried  to  state  the  case  dispassionately, 
but  she  could  not  weigh  the  advantages  of  three  dor- 
mers, a  full-grown  closet,  and  a  steam-radiator  with 
perfect  calm,  and  after  one  glance,  not  at  these  per- 
suasive features,  but  Amy's,  Jean  promptly  voted  for 
the  joint  arrangement. 

Amy  hugged  her  rapturously. 

"If  you  only  knew  how  I've  wanted  it!"  she  ex- 
claimed. "You  can't  possibly  do  better  for  your 
money  than  here.  Take  my  word  for  it,  I've  tramped 
everywhere  to  see.  It  has  a  lot  of  good  points.  For 
one  thing,  you'll  be  within  walking  distance  of  a 
warm  lunch  that  won't  cost  extra,  and  that's  a  big 
item,  I  can  tell  you.  Besides,  you'll  meet  nice  peo- 
ple. A  dentist  has  the  second  floor  front  who's  a 
regular  swell,  but  real  sociable,  and  in  the  hall-bed- 
room, third  floor  back,  there's  an  old  man  who  works 
in  the  Astor  Library.  He  knows  so  much,  I'm  almost 
afraid  to  talk  to  him.  Why,  they  say  he  had  a  col- 
lege education !  Then,  there's  a  girl  who  type- 


9o  THE   CRUCIBLE 

writes  for  a  law  firm  down  in  Nassau  Street  —  she's 
on  our  floor;  another  who's  a  manicure;  and  a  quiet 
old  couple  that  used  to  have  money,  but  lost  it  in 
Wall  Street.  All  those  are  permanents.  There  are 
two  others,  a  man  and  his  wife,  who  may  go  any 
time  because  they  belong  to  the  profession." 

"Which  ?"   asked  Jean,  innocently. 

"Why,  the  stage.  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn  always  calls 
it  'the  profession.'  She  gets  actors  off  and  on  who 
are  waiting  for  engagements.  She  must  have  known 
a  stack  of  them  once." 

Jean  shrank  from  the  thought  of  dining  with  this 
array  of  fashion,  learning,  and  talent,  particularly 
when  she  discovered  that  one  long  table  held  them 
all;  but  nothing  could  have  been  less  formal  than  the 
meal.  The  prodigy  of  learning  from  the  Astor,  who, 
by  virtue  of  intellect  or  seniority,  sat  at  the  head  of 
the  board  in  pleasing  domestic  balance  to  Mrs.  St. 
Aubyn  at  the  foot,  chatted  amiably  with  Jean  and 
Amy,  quite  like  a  person  of  ordinary  attainments. 
The  stenographer  exchanged  ideas  upon  winter  styles 
with  the  wife  of  the  shorn  lamb  of  Wall  Street,  who, 
on  his  part,  forgot  his  losses  in  a  four-sided  discussion, 
with  the  manicure  and  the  professional  birds  of  pas- 
sage, of  the  President's  latest  speech,  a  document 
which  it  tardily  developed  none  of  them  had 
read. 

Mrs.  St.  Aubyn's  conversation  dealt  mainly  with 
the  food,  and  was  aimed  at  the  maid,  whose  blunders 
were  apparently  legion,  but  even  she  found  leisure, 


THE   CRUCIBLE  91 

as  did  every  person  in  the  room,  for  a  quip  with  the 
jocund  ruling  spirit  of  the  feast,  Dr.  Paul  Bartlett. 
Coming  last,  the  dentist  instantly  leavened  the  whole 
lump.  He  drew  gems  of  dramatic  criticism  from 
the  players,  got  the  bookworm's  opinion  of  a  popular 
novel,  inquired  the  day's  happenings  on  'Change' 
from  the  shorn  lamb,  discussed  a  murder  trial  with 
the  legal  stenographer,  the  outrageous  rise  in  price 
of  coal  with  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn,  and  the  growing  ex- 
travagance of  women's  sleeves  with  Amy  and  the 
manicure,  all  between  the  soup  and  fish.  In  fine, 
as  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn  loudly  whispered  to  Jean  in  leav- 
ing the  dining  room,  he  was  the  life  of  the  occasion. 
Whether  he  heard  this  or  not,  Doctor  Bartlett  re- 
doubled his  efforts,  if  they  were  efforts,  when  after 
eddying  uncertainly  about  the  newel  post  of  the 
main  hall  the  company  finally  drifted  into  the  draw- 
ing-room. 

This  was  not  a  blithesome  apartment.  It  ran 
extraordinarily  to  length  and  height,  Jean  thought, 
rather  to  the  scamping  of  its  third  dimension,  and 
was  decorated  after  the  dreary  fashion  of  the  decade 
immediately  succeeding  the  Civil  War.  Its  wood- 
work was  black  walnut,  its  chandelier  a  writhing 
mass  of  tortured  metal,  its  mantelpiece  a  marble 
sepulchre.  A  bedizened  family  Bible  of  some  thirty 
pounds  avoirdupois,  lying  upon  a  stand  ill  designed 
to  bear  its  weight,  blocked  one  window,  while  a 
Rogers  group,  similarly  supported,  filled  the  other. 
The  pictures  were  sadly  allegorical  save  one,  a  large 


92  THE   CRUCIBLE 

engraving  entitled  "The  Trial  of  Effie  Deans." 
Yet,  despite  these  handicaps,  the  dentist  contrived 
to  give  the  room  an  air  of  cheer.  Spying  a  deck  of 
cards  upon  the  entablature  of  the  mausoleum,  he 
performed  a  mystifying  trick,  which  he  followed  with 
fortunes,  told  as  cleverly  as  a  gypsy's,  and  with  feats 
of  sleight  of  hand.  Then,  dropping  to  the  piano- 
stool,  he  coaxed  from  the  venerable  instrument  a  two- 
step  which  set  everybody's  feet  beating  time;  passed 
from  this  to  a  "coon  song"  one  could  easily  imagine 
was  sung  by  a  negro;  and,  finally,  chief  marvel  of  all, 
he  succeeded  in  luring  everybody  except  Jean  into 
joining  the  chorus  of  the  latest  popular  air.  In  the 
midst  of  all  these  things  he  narrated  most  amusing 
little  stories,  mainly  of  dentists'  offices,  punctuated 
with  dental  oaths  and  imprecations  like  "Holy 
Molars"  and  "Suffering  Bicuspid,"  which  sounded 
comically  profane  without  being  so. 

The  girls  discussed  him  animatedly  from  their  pil- 
lows in  the  wonderful  room  of  three  dormers. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  he  was  sociable?"  Amy  de- 
manded. "Can't  he  sing  simply  dandy  ?  And  isn't 
he  good-looking?" 

Jean  gave  a  general  assent.  She  liked  the  young 
fellow's  breeziness.  She  liked  his  cleanliness,  too, 
and  remarked  upon  it. 

"I  noticed  it  first  of  all,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  and  what's  better,"  added  Amy,  "you'll 
never  see  him  look  any  different.  He  says  soap 
and  water  mean  dollars  in  his  business.  That's  one 


THE   CRUCIBLE  93 

reason  why  he's  so  run  after  at  the  parlors.  None 
of  the  other  dentists  there  seem  to  care." 

"Then  he  hasn't  an  office  of  his  own?" 

"Not  yet.  He  works  in  a  Painless  Dental  Parlor 
over  on  Sixth  Avenue.  You'll  know  the  place  by  a 
tall  darky  in  uniform  they  keep  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
to  hand  out  circulars." 

"Do  you  suppose  he  thought  it  strange  that  I 
didn't  sing  with  the  rest?"  Jean  asked  anxiously. 
"He  looked  round  twice." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder.  He  couldn't  guess,  natu- 
rally, that  you've  had  a  steady  diet  of  hymns  for  three 
years.  Still,  that  song  is  only  just  out,  and  half  of  us 
didn't  know  the  words." 

"Did  I  do  anything  else  queer?" 

"Well,  you  tried  hard  to  pass  dishes  down  the  line, 
instead  of  letting  the  maid  do  it,  and  you  looked  side- 
ways a  good  deal  without  turning  your  head.  I  don't 
think  of  anything  else  just  now  unless  it's  that  you're 
as  nervous  as  a  cat.  Miss  Archer  did  her  best  to 
make  us  girls  act  like  other  human  beings,  but  she 
didn't  run  the  whole  refuge,  more's  the  pity.  I've 
got  a  stack  of  things  to  thank  her  for.  Do  you  notice 
I  don't  say  'ain't'  any  more?" 

"Yes." 

"She  broke  me  of  that.  She  said  I'd  find  it  paid 
to  speak  good  English,  and  I  have.  Already  it's 
meant  dollars  to  me,  just  like  the  doctor's  soap  and 
water." 

Jean  wondered  how  grammatical  accuracy  could 


94  THE   CRUCIBLE 

further  the  making  of  cloaks,  but  Amy  had  suddenly 
become  too  drowsy  to  explain.  Rest  came  less  easily 
to  the  newcomer.  The  muffled  roar  of  the  elevated 
railroad,  heeded  by  the  urban  ear  no  more  than  the 
beat  of  surf,  teased  her  excited  senses  to  insomnia. 
Oblivion  came  abruptly  when  she  despaired  of  sleep 
at  all,  and  then,  as  quickly,  morning,  with  Amy 
shaking  her  awake.  The  light  from  the  three  dormers 
was  still  uncertain  and  the  air  chill,  for  though  the 
prized  radiator  clanked  and  whistled  prodigiously, 
it  emitted  no  warmth. 

Jean  sprang  up  hurriedly. 

"Am  I  late?" 

"No;  early.  I  thought  you'd  better  get  down  to 
Meyer  &  Schwarzschild's  a  little  before  time  the  first 
day.  You'll  have  to  wear  your  street-suit  there,  of 
course,  but  you  need  another  skirt  and  a  big  apron  for 
work.  Just  use  these  I've  laid  out  as  long  as  you  like." 

"But  you'll  need  them  yourself." 

Amy  smiled  mysteriously. 

"No,  I  shan't,"  she  returned,  shaking  down  a 
smart  black  skirt  over  a  petticoat  which  gave  forth 
the  unmistakable  rustle  of  silk.  "In  fact,  this  is 
my  work-dress  —  or  one  of  them."  She  revolved 
slowly  before  the  glass  a  moment,  relishing  Jean's 
astonishment,  then  went  on:  "I'll  have  to  own  up 
now.  The  cat  was  almost  out  of  the  bag  last  night. 
I  didn't  want  to  tell  you  till  this  morning.  I  thought 
it  might  discourage  you.  I'm  not  with  Meyer  & 
Schwarzschild  any  more." 


THE   CRUCIBLE  95 

"You've  left  the  cloak  firm!"  Jean  was  taken 
aback,  but  tried  to  hide  her  disappointment.  "I'm 
glad  you've  done  better,"  glancing  again  at  Amy's 
magnificence;  "it's  easy  to  see  you  have." 

"Well,  I  guess!  I'm  a  cloak-model  in  one  of  the 
biggest  department  stores  in  the  United  States." 

"A  cloak-model!"  The  term  suggested  only  a 
wax-faced  dummy  to  Jean.  "What  do  you  do?" 

"Walk  up  and  down  before  the  millionnaires'  wives, 
and  make  the  pudgy  old  things  think  they'll  look  as 
well  as  I  do  if  they  buy  the  garment.  But  they 
never  do  look  as  well.  I  got  the  place  through  a 
buyer  who  came  to  Meyer  &  Schwarzschild's  once 
in  a  while.  He  saw  that  I  have  style  and  a  good 
figure,  and  don't  say  'ain't'  —  he  really  mentioned 
that !  —  and  told  the  cloak  department  that  I  was  the 
girl  they  were  looking  for.  Sounds  easy,  doesn't  it  ?" 

It  sounded  anything  but  easy  to  Jean. 

"And  you  like  it  ?"  she  said.  "But  I  needn't  ask 
you  that." 

"  Don't  I !  Maybe  it  doesn't  give  you  thrills  to 
parade  up  and  down  with  a  three-hundred-dollar 
evening  wrap  on  your  back !  But  cheer  up,"  she 
added  quickly,  reading  Jean's  face.  "I'm  going 
down  to  Meyer  &  Schwarzschild's  with  you  this 
morning  and  give  you  a  rousing  send-off." 


X 

THE  section  of  Broadway  to  which  Amy  piloted 
Jean,  showing  her  all  the  short  cuts  which  would 
save  precious  time  at  lunch  hour,  seemed  wholly 
given  over  to  wholesale  establishments  with  signs 
bearing  Hebrew  names. 

"Yes;  this  is  Main  Street  of  the  New  Jerusalem, 
all  right,"  she  assented  to  Jean's  comment;  "but 
you'll  find  there  are  Jews  and  Jews  in  the  clothing 
trade.  I'd  hate  to  work  for  some  of  the  chosen  people 
I've  seen,  but  you'd  have  to  hunt  a  long  time  to  find 
a  more  well-meaning  man  than  old  Mr.  Meyer.  I 
only  hope  he'll  be  down  this  morning." 

Other  workers,  chiefly  women  and  girls,  crowded 
into  the  rough  freight  elevator  by  which  they  ascended, 
and  one  or  two  who  got  off  with  them  at  Meyer  & 
Schwarzschild's  loft  greeted  Amy  by  name.  They 
inventoried  her  finery  minutely,  Jean  saw,  and  nudg- 
ing one  another,  arched  significant  brows  when  her 
back  was  turned.  On  her  part,  Amy  took  little  no- 
tice of  them,  and,  without  introducing  Jean,  swept 
by  toward  the  flimsy  partition  of  wood  and  ground 
glass  which  shut  the  workrooms  from  the  counting- 
room,  brushed  aside  an  office  boy,  who  demanded  her 
business,  and  knocked  at  a  half-open  door  lettered, 
"Jacob  Meyer,  Sr." 

96 


THE   CRUCIBLE  97 

The  head  of  the  firm,  who  bade  them  enter,  was 
a  very  old  man  with  a  patriarchal  beard.  He  smiled 
benignantly,  recognized  Amy  after  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation, asked  about  her  new  position,  and  patted 
her  on  the  shoulder  when  she  told  him  he  must  be 
as  good  to  Miss  Fanshaw  as  he  had  been  to  her. 
Turning  to  Jean,  he  said  that  Miss  Archer  had  never 
sent  them  a  poor  worker. 

"I  have  the  highest  opinion  of  Miss  Archer,"  he 
added,  with  the  air  of  a  presiding  officer  who  relished 
the  taste  of  his  own  periods.  "Her  charity  knows 
neither  Jew  nor  Gentile.  I  met  her  first  here  in 
New  York  when  some  of  us  were  trying  a  philan- 
thropic experiment  in  the  so-called  Ghetto.  It  pre- 
sented grave  difficulties,  very  grave  difficulties,  and  it 
is  hardly  too  much  to  say,  —  in  fact,  I  have  no 
hesitation  in  saying,  —  that  Miss  Archer  saved 
the  day.  I  recall  one  most  signal  instance  of  her 
tact  —  " 

He  would  have  rambled  on  willingly,  but  Amy  cut 
in  with  the  statement  that  she  must  be  off,  squeezed 
Jean's  hand  encouragingly,  and  whisked  out  forth- 
with. Her  abrupt  exit  seemed  to  disorder  the  de- 
liberate clockwork  of  old  Mr.  Meyer's  thoughts,  for 
he  sat  some  little  time  staring  at  a  letter-file  with  his 
mouth  ajar,  till,  recollecting  himself  at  last,  he  brought 
forth,  "As  I  was  saying,  my  dear,  I  trust  you'll  like 
our  ways,"  —  which  Jean  was  certain  he  had  not  said 
at  all,  —  and  thereupon  led  her  to  the  door  of  one  of 
the  workrooms  and  turned  her  over  to  its  forewoman, 


98  THE   CRUCIBLE 

a  stout  Jewess  with  oily  black  hair  combed  low  to 
disguise  her  too  prominent  ears. 

Work  had  begun,  and  the  place  was  deafening  with 
the  whir  of  some  thirty-odd  close-ranked  machines 
which,  their  ends  almost  touching,  filled  all  the 
floor  save  the  narrowest  of  aisles,  where  stood  the 
chairs  of  the  operators.  To  one  of  these  sewing- 
machines  and  a  huge  pile  of  unstitched  sleeves  Jean 
was  assigned.  The  task  itself  was  simple,  after  the 
sound  training  of  the  refuge  school,  but  the  conditions 
under  which  she  worked  told  heavily  against  her 
efficiency.  The  din  was  incessant,  the  light  poor, 
the  low-ceiled  room  crowded  beyond  its  air-space, 
and  the  floor  none  too  clean.  As  the  morning  drew 
on,  the  atmosphere  became  steadily  worse.  Now 
and  then  the  forewoman  would  open  a  window,  — 
she  stood  mainly  by  a  door  herself,  turning  and  turn- 
ing a  showy  ring  upon  her  fat  index  ringer,  —  but  the 
relatively  purer  air  thus  admitted  reached  only  the 
girls  who  worked  nearest,  of  whom  Jean  was  not  one, 
and  these  soon  shivered  and  complained  of  drafts. 

By  the  time  the  hands  of  a  dingy  clock  marked  ten, 
her  head  was  throbbing  violently  and  her  spine 
seemed  one  prolonged  ache.  Her  neighbors,  except 
a  thin-cheeked  woman  who  stopped  now  and  again  to 
cough,  turned  off  their  stints  with  the  regularity  of 
long  habit,  straightening  only  to  seize  fresh  supplies 
for  their  insatiable  machines.  At  twelve  o'clock, 
when  whistles  blew  from  all  quarters  and  the  other 
employees,  dropping  work  as  it  stood,  scrambled  for 


THE   CRUCIBLE  99 

lunch-boxes  or  wraps,  Jean  relaxed  in  her  chair, 
too  jaded  to  rise.  Food  was  out  of  the  question,  — 
even  the  look  of  the  pickle-scented  luncheons  which 
some  of  the  cloak-makers  opened  made  her  ill,  — 
but  she  presently  dragged  herself  outdoors,  and  strik- 
ing down  a  cross  street,  at  whose  farther  end  she 
could  see  trees,  came  to  a  little  park  distinguished  by 
a  marble  arch,  where  she  wandered  aimlessly  till 
she  judged  it  time  to  return. 

The  streets  she  retraced  were  now  thronged  with 
masculine  wage-earners  lounging  and  smoking  in  the 
doorways  of  their  various  places  of  employment. 
All  paid  her  the  tribute  of  a  stare,  and  some  made 
audible  comments  on  her  hair  or  eyes,  or  what  they 
termed  her  shape.  Her  own  doorway  was  also 
crowded.  These  idlers  were,  for  the  most  part,  girls 
from  the  many  garment-manufactories  of  one  sort 
and  another  which  the  great  building  housed;  but  a 
man  stood  here  and  there,  either  the  leader  or  the  butt 
of  some  horse-play.  One  of  the  young  women  who 
had  scrutinized  Amy  in  the  elevator  nodded  to  her 
and  seemed  about  to  speak,  but  Jean  felt  too  heart- 
sick for  words,  and  returned  at  once  to  her  appointed 
corner  in  the  hive,  where,  although  it  still  lacked 
something  of  one  o'clock,  she  again  sat  down  to  her 
machine.  The  air  was  better,  for  the  windows  had 
been  thrown  open  during  the  noon-hour,  but  the  room 
was  in  consequence  very  chill,  and  her  fellow-workers, 
now  drifting  back  in  twos  and  threes,  grumbled  as 
they  came.  Among  them  was  the  girl  who  had 


ioo  THE   CRUCIBLE 

greeted  her  below,  and  looking  at  her  with  more  in- 
terest Jean  read  kindness  in  her  freckled  face.  Their 
eyes  met  again,  with  a  half-smile,  and  the  girl  edged 
down  the  narrow  lane  for  a  moment's  gossip. 

"You'll  find  it  better  to  take  a  bite  of  lunch,  even 
if  you  don't  hanker  for  it,"  she  observed. 

"How  do  you  know  I  haven't  ?"   Jean  asked. 

"That's  easy.  For  one  reason,  I  seen  you  walkin' 
in  Washington  Square.  For  another,  a  green  hand 
here  don't  never  want  lunch.  Not  used  to  this  kind 
of  thing,  are  you  ?" 

"To  the  work,  yes;   not  the  noise,  the  bad  air." 

"Where'd  you  work  last?" 

"In  a  small  town,"  she  eluded. 

"That's  different.  You  don't  have  the  sweat-shop 
in  the  country,  I  guess." 

"Sweat-shop !"  Jean  had  heard  that  sinister  term 
before.  "Is  that  what  they  call  Meyer  &  Schwarz- 
schild's?" 

The  girl  laughed  at  her  simplicity. 

"I  call  it  one,"  she  rejoined,  "even  if  it  is  on  Broad- 
way. Don't  low  wages  and  dirt  and  bad  air  and  dis- 
ease make  a  sweat-shop  ?" 

"Disease  !     What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Well,  consumption,  for  instance.  It  isn't  bron- 
chitis, as  she  thinks,  that  ails  the  woman  next  machine 
to  you.  I  could  tell  you  other  things,  but  what's 
the  use !  You  won't  stop  here  any  longer  than  I 
will,  and  that's  just  long  enough  to  find  a  better 
job." 


THE   CRUCIBLE  101 

The  afternoon  lapsed  somehow.  Once,  a  youngish, 
overdressed  man  with  blustering  manners  and  thick, 
bright-red  lips  came  into  their  workroom  and  told 
the  forewoman  that  a  certain  order  must  be  rushed. 
He  idled  near  Jean's  machine  for  an  interval,  under 
pretence  of  examining  her  work,  but  he  mainly  looked 
her  in  the  face.  As  he  passed  down  the  aisles,  he 
touched  this  girl  and  that  familiarly.  Those  so 
favored  were  without  exception  pretty,  and  they 
usually  simpered  under  his  attentions,  though  one  or 
two  grimaced  afterward.  When  he  had  gone,  Jean's 
thin-cheeked  neighbor  told  her  between  coughs  that 
this  was  the  younger  Meyer. 

She  met  him  again  when  she  passed  the  offices  in 
leaving  for  the  night,  and  he  again  stared  fixedly, 
wearing  his  repulsive,  scarlet  smile.  She  jumped  at 
the  conclusion  that  old  Mr.  Meyer  had  mentioned 
that  she  came  from  a  reformatory,  and  hurried  by 
with  burning  cheeks.  The  night  air  refreshed  her 
a  little,  but  the  way  home  seemed  endless,  and  the 
three  flights  from  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn's  door  to  the  dor- 
mered  bedroom  were  appalling  in  prospect.  She 
entered  faint  with  hunger  and  fagged  with  a  thor- 
oughness she  had  not  known  since  the  earlier  days  in 
the  refuge  laundry. 

Amy  sprang  up  from  a  novel. 

"Don't  say  a  word,"  she  charged.  "I  suspicioned 
how  it  would  be  when  you  didn't  show  up  for  lunch. 
Not  that  I  expected  you,  though.  I'd  have  bet  a 
pound  of  chocolates  you  wouldn't  come." 


io2  THE   CRUCIBLE 

Jean  was  content  to  say  nothing  and  let  herself  be 
mothered.  Amy  showed  no  trace  of  fatigue.  She 
had  changed  her  black  blouse  for  a  white  one  of  some 
soft  fabric,  and  looked  as  fresh  and  pink-cheeked  as 
if  she  had  idled  the  livelong  day. 

"Now  for  the  pick-me-up,"  she  said  briskly,  after 
making  Jean  snug  among  the  pillows;  and  what 
with  a  tiny  kettle  and  a  spirit-lamp,  some  sugar 
which  she  rummaged  from  a  bureau  drawer,  and  a 
little  milk  from  the  natural  refrigerator  of  the  window- 
sill,  she  concocted  in  no  time  a  really  savory  cup  of 
tea. 

Then,  only,  Jean  found  voice. 

"Did  you  know  all  the  time,"  she  demanded,  "that 
Meyer  &  Schwarzschild's  is  no  better  than  a  sweat- 
shop ?" 

"I  worked  there  a  year,"  Amy  returned  senten- 
tiously.  "I'm  not  saying  it  was  as  bad  all  along  as 
now.  It  was  as  decent  as  any  at  first,  and  I  hear  that 
even  now  the  room  where  the  cutters  work  is  pretty 
fair." 

"  Does  Miss  Archer  know  ?    But  that's  impossible." 

"Of  course  she  doesn't.  And,  though  you  mayn't 
believe  it,  old  Mr.  Meyer  doesn't  know  either.  You 
saw  what  he  is !  It's  only  hospitals  and  orphan 
asylums  he  thinks  about.  He  totters  down  to  busi- 
ness for  about  an  hour  a  week,  and  if  he  ever  pokes 
his  dear  old  nose  into  one  of  the  workrooms,  it's  early 
in  the  morning  before  the  air  gets  so  thick  you  could 
slice  it." 


THE    CRUCIBLE  103 

"  But  his  partner  —  Schwarzschild  ?    Where  is  he  ?" 

"Dead.  They  keep  the  name  because  the  firm 
is  an  old  one.  It's  all  Meyer  now,  and  that  doesn't 
mean  Jacob  Meyer,  Sr.,  but  Jake.  You  probably 
saw  Jake.  He  has  tomato-colored  lips  and  an 
affectionate  disposition." 

Jean  shivered. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"How  could  I  ?  Everything  was  settled  before  I 
knew  you  were  going  there.  Anyhow,  it's  a  living 
while  you  are  hunting  something  better.  I'm  in 
hopes  to  get  you  in  where  I  am.  I  spoke  to  a  floor- 
walker I  know  to-day.  My  department  is  full,  but 
they'll  probably  need  more  help  downstairs  for  the 
Christmas  rush." 

"That  would  be  merely  temporary." 

"Most  every  place  is  temporary  till  they  size  you 
up.  If  you're  what  they  want,  they'll  keep  you  on 
after  the  holidays,  never  fear.  You  may  have  to 
take  less  money  to  begin  with  than  you  get  now,  but 
it  will  be  easier  earned.  Any  old  thing  is  better  than 
Jake  Meyer's  joint,  /  think." 

This  hope  carried  Jean  through  the  three  ensuing 
days.  The  conditions  at  the  cloak-factory  were  at  no 
time  better  —  in  fact,  once  or  twice,  when  it  rained 
and  the  girls  came  with  damp  clothing,  they  were 
worse;  but  she  omitted  no  more  meals,  and  after 
the  second  day  accustomed  herself  to  the  steady 
treadmill  of  the  machine. 

At  luncheon,  Friday,  Amy  had  news. 


104  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"Come  up  to  the  store  after  you  stop  work  to- 
night," she  directed.  "  Beginning  to-day,  we  keep 
open  longer.  Take  the  elevator  to  the  fourth  floor." 

"There's  a  place  for  me  ?" 

"I'm  not  saying  that.  I  spoke  to  my  friend,  the 
floor-walker,  again  —  he's  in  the  toy  department  — 
and  he  told  me  to  bring  you  round." 

Jean  found  the  vast  establishment  easily.  The 
difficulty  would  have  been  to  miss  it.  Pushing  her 
way  through  the  holiday  shoppers  crowding  the  im- 
mense ground-floor,  she  wormed  into  an  elevator, 
got  out  as  Amy  bade,  and,  after  devious  wanderings 
in  a  wonderful  garden  of  millinery,  came  finally  upon 
her  friend's  special  province  and  Amy  herself. 

Or  was  it  Amy  ?  She  looked  twice  before  deciding. 
It  was  not  so  much  the  costly  garment,  a  thing  of 
silks,  embroideries,  and  laces,  which  effected  the  trans- 
formation, —  Jean  expected  something  of  the  kind, 
—  as  it  was  the  actress  in  Amy  herself,  which  im- 
pelled her  to  play  the  part  the  costume  implied.  With 
eyes  sparkling,  cheeks  flushed,  shoulders  erect,  she 
was  not  Amy  Jeffries,  cloak-model,  but  a  child  of 
luxury  apparelled  for  the  opera  or  the  ball. 

"Did  she  buy  it  ?"  Jean  asked,  when,  free  at  last, 
Amy  perceived  her  waiting  and  came  to  her. 

Amy  sighed  dolefully. 

"Yes;  it's  gone,"  she  said.  "You  can't  imagine 
how  I  hate  to  lose  it.  It  had  come  to  seem  like  my 
very  own." 

Jean  could  not  conceive  Amy  in  an  occupation  more 


THE   CRUCIBLE  105 

congenial,  and  wished  heartily  that  as  enviable  a 
fortune  might  fall  to  her. 

"It  seems  easy  work,"  she  said.  "What  do  they 
require  of  a  cloak-model?" 

"A  thirty-six  inch  bust,  at  least,  for  a  starter.  Did 
I  ever  tell  you  that  they  call  us  by  our  bust  meas- 
ures ?  We  never  hear  our  own  names.  I'm  Thirty- 
six;  that  big  girl  with  the  red  hair  is  Thirty-eight; 
and  so  it  goes.  Then  you  must  have  good  propor- 
tions and  a  stylish  carriage,  and  be  attractive  gen- 
erally," she  added,  naively  regarding  her  trim  reflec- 
tion in  the  nearest  pier-glass. 

At  this  point  "Thirty-eight"  approached,  and  Amy 
introduced  her,  saying :  — 

"My  friend  here  thinks  she'd  like  to  be  a  cloak- 
model.  'Tisn't  all  roses,  is  it?" 

The  red-haired  girl  gave  the  indulgent  smile  of 
experience. 

"Wholesale  or  retail,  it's  harder  than  it  looks," 
she  declared.  "I  don't  mean  displaying  gowns  so 
much  as  the  side  issues.  Why,  the  amount  of  diet- 
ing, lacing,  and  French  heels  some  models  put  up 
with  to  keep  in  form  is  something  awful.  Give  me 
the  retail  trade,  though.  I'd  rather  deal  with  shop- 
ping cranks  than  buyers." 

"I  suppose  some  of  the  buyers  are  fresh,"  Amy  de- 
murely remarked. 

"  Some  !  Better  say  one  out  of  every  two,"  retorted 
Thirty-eight,  tersely.  "I  know  what  I'm  talking 
about.  I  was  a  display  model  in  wholesale  houses 


io6  THE   CRUCIBLE 

for  three  years  —  showing  evening  costumes,  too ! 
Oh,  I  know  buyers !  A  decent  girl  simply  has  to 
make  herself  a  dummy,  that's  all.  She  can't  afford 
to  have  eyes  and  ears  and  feelings." 

It  was  now  quite  the  closing  hour,  and  Amy  con- 
ducted Jean  to  a  lower  floor  which  looked  like  Kriss 
Kringle's  own  kingdom.  They  came  upon  the  floor- 
walker, frowning  portentously  at  an  atom  of  a  cash- 
girl  who  had  stopped  to  play  with  a  toy  which  she 
should  have  had  wrapped  immediately  for  a  subur- 
ban customer;  but  he  smoothed  his  wrinkled  front 
at  sight  of  Amy,  with  whom  he  seemed  on  excellent 
terms.  Jean  looked  for  a  rigid  inquiry  into  her 
qualifications,  but  after  some  mention  of  a  reference, 
which  Amy  forestalled  by  glibly  offering  her  own,  Mr. 
Rose  merely  told  her  to  report  for  trial  Monday,  at 
six  dollars  a  week,  remarking  in  the  same  breath  that 
she  had  a  heart-breaking  pair  of  eyes. 

Jean  was  puzzled. 

"Do  they  take  on  everybody  with  no  more  cere- 
mony than  that  ?"  she  asked,  as  they  made  their  way 
out.  "It  seems  a  slack  way  of  doing  things." 

Amy  laughed  gayly. 

"Not  much!  In  some  stores  —  most,  I  guess  — 
the  superintendent  does  the  hiring.  I  had  to  face 
the  manager  of  my  department.  You  would  have 
had  to  see  the  manager  down  here,  probably,  if  he 
wasn't  sick.  I  knew  this  when  I  struck  Rosey- 
posy  for  the  place.  He  took  you  as  a  personal  favor 
to  me,  or  that's  what  he  said,  for  he's  rushing  me  a  bit. 


THE   CRUCIBLE  107 

For  my  part,  I  think  your  heart-breaking  eyes  did  it. 
You  don't  seem  to  realize  it,  but  you're  a  mighty 
handsome  girl.  I  didn't  half  appreciate  it  when  you 
wore  the  refuge  uniform.  Don't  blush !  You'll  get 
used  to  it.  Trust  the  men  to  tell  you.  Anyhow, 
you've  got  your  chance  and  can  snap  your  fingers  at 
Meyer  &  Schwarzschild." 

"I'll  tell  them  to-morrow  morning." 

"Better  wait  till  to-morrow  night  after  you've 
drawn  your  pay,"  counselled  Amy,  sagely.  "Then  you 
needn't  listen  to  any  more  back  talk  than  you  please." 

Jean  followed  this  advice,  giving  the  forewoman 
notice  only  when  she  turned  from  the  cashier's  win- 
dow with  her  hard-earned  wage  safe  in  her  grasp. 

The  Jewess  bridled,  her  fat  shoulders  quivering. 

"Place  not  good  enough?"    she  queried  tartly. 

"I've  a  better  one." 

"With  another  cloak  firm  ?" 

"No;   with  a  department  store." 

The  forewoman  smiled  sarcastically. 

"Don't  you  fool  yourself  that  you'll  be  better  off. 
Mr.  Meyer!  Mr.  Meyer!"  she  called,  raising  her 
voice  as  the  son  of  the  house  made  his  appearance  in 
a  doorway.  "Here's  another  girl  what's  got  the 
department-store  fever." 

Jean  shrank  from  further  explanations,  particularly 
with  young  Meyer,  but  he  bustled  up  at  once  and  put 
the  same  questions  as  the  forewoman. 

"Which  store  is  it  ?"   he  continued. 

She  told  him,  and  wondered  why  he  smirked. 


io8  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"Does  Amy  Jeffries  work  there  still?"  he  said. 

"Yes." 

"Seems  to  be  prospering  ?     Wears  good  clothes  ?" 

"Yes." 

Young  Meyer  leered  again. 

"Come  round  when  you're  sick  of  it,"  he  invited. 
"Tell  Amy,  too.  You're  both  good  cloak-makers." 

She  turned  from  his  satyr-face,  vaguely  disquieted. 
His  whole  manner  was  an  evil  innuendo.  The  girl  with 
the  freckles,  who  had  called  the  place  a  sweat-shop, 
went  down  with  her  in  the  freight-elevator  and  walked 
beside  her  for  a  block,  when  they  gained  the  street. 

"I  heard  Jake  chewin'  the  rag  up  there,"  she  said. 
"Why  didn't  you  cuff  his  ears  ?  Anybody 'd  know 
to  look  at  you  that  no  buyer  got  you  your  position." 

"What  are  you  talking  about?" 

"You  didn't  catch  on  to  what  he  was  hintin'  ?" 

"No." 

The  girl  gave  an  incredulous  exclamation. 

"And  maybe  you  don't  know  either  how  Amy 
Jeffries  got  her  place  ?"  she  added. 

"She  said  a  buyer  for  the  firm  saw  her  at  Meyer 
&  Schwarzschild's  and  liked  her  looks." 

"That's  straight,"  grinned  the  sceptic. 

Jean  shook  her  impatiently  by  the  arm. 

"  What  isn't  straight  ?"  she  demanded.  "You  are  the 
one  hinting  now.  What  do  you  mean  ?  Out  with  it !" 

But  the  girl  squirmed  out  of  her  grasp  and  darted 
laughing  away. 

"Ask  Amy,"  she  called. 


XI 

JEAN  meant  to  probe  the  mystery  at  the  first 
possible  moment,  but  her  resolve  weakened  in  Amy's 
presence.  If  the  girl's  light-heartedness  did  not  of 
itself  quiet  suspicion,  it  at  least  disarmed  it,  while 
her  unselfish  joy  at  Jean's  release  from  the  thraldom 
of  Meyer  &  Schwarzschild  alone  made  the  questions 
Jean  had  thought  to  put  seem  churlish  and  ungrate- 
ful. Moreover,  Amy  was  full  of  a  plan  for  the  even- 
ing. 

"I  knew  it  was  coming,"  she  exulted.  "Any- 
body with  a  pair  of  eyes  could  see  by  the  way  he's 
picked  you  out  to  talk  to  every  night  that  you've 
got  him  going.  He  came  to  me  first  to  ask  if  I  thought 
you'd  come,  and  when  I  accepted  for  both,  he  hustled 
right  out  to  get  the  tickets." 

"What  tickets?"  She  did  not  ask  who  was  the 
purchaser;  she,  too,  had  eyes. 

"Tickets  for  the  theatre  —  a  vaudeville  show." 

Jean's  face  lit. 

"Vaudeville!  I've  often  wondered  what  it  was 
like." 

"You're  not  telling  me  you've  never  seen  a  vaude- 
ville show  ?" 

109 


no  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"Never.  Nothing  worth  seeing  ever  came  to 
Shawnee  Springs.  Ought  we  to  go  ?" 

"Do  you  mean,  is  it  respectable?  Sure!  One 
of  the  best  in  the  city." 

"I  don't  mean  that.  Ought  we  to  go  in  this  way  ? 
I  don't  know  him." 

"Well,  I  do,"  rejoined  Amy,  decisively;  "and  if 
there's  a  nicer  fellow  between  High  Bridge  and  the 
Battery,  I'll  miss  my  guess.  Of  course,  if  you  want 
to  scare  up  a  headache  and  back  out,  why,  you  can. 
I'm  going,  anyway,  and  I  reckon  the  extra  ticket 
won't  go  a-begging.  The  stenographer  or  the  mani- 
cure would  jump  at  the  chance." 

"Would  he  be  offended?" 

"Awfully.  Why,  he  only  asked  me  because  he 
wanted  you !  Next  time  it  will  be  you  alone." 

Jean  needed  little  coaxing.  She  wanted  exceed- 
ingly to  see  a  New  York  theater,  and  she  really  liked 
the  breezy  young  dentist.  It  had  surprised  her  in 
their  evening  talks  to  find  how  much  they  had  in 
common.  He,  too,  had  spent  his  youth  in  a  country 
town,  and,  though  he  had  migrated  first  to  a  smaller 
city  to  study  for  his  profession,  his  early  impressions 
of  New  York  coincided  very  closely  with  her  own. 
She  later  discovered  the  same  community  of  interest 
with  nearly  every  one  so  reared,  but  it  now  chanced 
that  none  other  of  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn's  boarders  — 
or,  as  she  preferred  to  call  them,  guests  —  were 
country-bred,  and  Paul  Bartlett  got  the  credit  of  a 
readier  sympathy  accordingly.  Thus,  to-night,  he 


THE   CRUCIBLE  in 

did  not  share  Amy's  rather  too  frequently  expressed 
wonder  that  Jean  had  never  witnessed  a  vaudeville 
performance. 

"Never  saw  anything  nearer  to  it  than  a  minstrel 
show  myself,  up  to  the  time  I  went  away  to  dental 
college,"  he  confessed  frankly,  as  they  set  out.  "We 
only  got  'Uncle  Tom's  Cabin'  and  'East  Lynne' 
troupes  in  our  burg.  Say,  but  they  were  a  rocky 
aggregation !  I  could  see  that  even  then." 

This  also  struck  Jean  as  a  notable  coincidence. 

"It  seems  as  if  you  were  describing  the  Springs," 
she  said.  "  But  we  did  get  a  circus  or  two." 

" Then  your  town  beat  mine,"  Paul  laughed.  "  We 
had  to  jog  over  to  the  county  seat  for  Barnum's. 
Otherwise  they  seem  to  have  been  cut  off  the  same 
piece  of  homespun.  I'll  bet  you  even  had  box 
socials  ?" 

Jean's  face  suddenly  lost  its  animation. 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

"Just  about  the  limit,  weren't  they?  I  wonder 
Newport  doesn't  take  'em  up.  They're  foolish 
enough.  Yet  I  thought  they  were  great  sport  once. 
I  used  to  try  to  change  the  boxes  when  I  suspected 
that  some  love-sick  pair  were  scheming  to  beat  the 
game.  Maybe  you've  done  that,  too?" 

"Yes,"   Jean  assented  again  unsteadily. 

She  was  infuriated  with  herself  for  her  involuntary 
change  of  manner  and  burning  face,  neither  of  which, 
she  feared,  had  escaped  his  quick  eye.  It  galled  her 
thoroughgoing  honesty  to  be  forever  on  her  guard 


ii2  THE   CRUCIBLE 

against  disclosing  her  refuge  history,  yet  there 
seemed  no  help  for  it.  Unjust  though  it  was,  the 
stigma  was  as  actual  for  her  as  for  the  guiltiest,  and 
cloak  it  she  must. 

If  the  dentist  noticed  anything  amiss,  he  was  tact- 
ful and  launched  into  an  exchange  of  nonsense  with 
Amy  which  lasted  quite  to  the  theater's  garish  door. 
Once  within,  Jean  forgot  that  she  had  a  past  which 
might  not  be  fearlessly  bared  for  any  eye.  Amy 
squeezed  her  arm  happily  as  they  passed  directly 
into  the  body  of  the  house  instead  of  mounting  the 
stairs  familiar  to  her  feet  when  she  paid  her  own  way ; 
and  to  the  squeeze  she  added  a  look  of  transport  and 
awe  when,  following  the  usher,  they  skirted  the  or- 
chestra and  entered  a  narrow  passage  near  the  stage. 

"We've  got  box  seats!"  she  whispered  huskily. 
"They  couldn't  have  cost  him  less  than  a  dollar 
apiece !" 

Jean  had  a  moment  of  timidity  begotten  of  a  vivid 
recollection  of  two  cramped  pigeon-roosts,  always 
untenanted,  which  flanked  the  advertisement-littered 
drop-curtain  of  the  Shawnee  Springs  Grand  Opera 
House,  but  was  speedily  reassured  to  find  that  she 
need  endure  no  such  lonely  distinction  here.  These 
boxes  were  many,  and  they  held  many,  their  own 
being  shared  by  half  a  dozen  persons  besides  them- 
selves, while  the  hangings  were  so  disposed  that  she 
could  be  as  secluded  as  she  pleased,  yet  miss  nothing 
of  the  play. 

The  play !     It  was  a  series  of  plays,  with  endless 


THE   CRUCIBLE  113 

other  wonderful  things,  too.  Nothing  that  she  had 
conceived  resembled  this  ever-shifting  spectacle  of 
laughter  and  tears.  For  there  were  tears  —  real 
ones  !  Jean  had  often  jeered  at  girls  who  cried  over 
novels,  while  those  whom  a  play,  or  at  least  the  Shaw- 
nee  Springs  brand  of  drama,  could  move  to  tears,  were 
even  less  comprehensible;  yet  to-night,  when  a  simple 
little  piece  dealing  merely  with  an  unhappy  man  and 
wife  who,  resolved  to  go  their  separate  ways,  callously 
divided  their  poor  belongings  until  they  reached  a 
dead  baby's  shoes,  ran  its  course,  she  found  her 
breath  short  and  her  cheeks  wet.  She  was  at  first 
rather  ashamed  of  this  weakness,  attributing  it  to 
her  refuge  nerves,  but  she  presently  heard  Amy  sob, 
and,  looking  round,  perceived  handkerchiefs  flutter- 
ing throughout  the  darkened  house.  Paul,  on  her 
other  side,  hemmed  once  or  twice,  and  she  supposed 
him  disgusted  with  all  this  ado  over  a  baby  who 
never  existed,  but  when  the  lights  went  up  suddenly 
she  discovered  that  his  eyes  were  moist,  too. 

She  liked  this  trait  in  Paul.  She  was  glad,  further- 
more, that  he  did  not  scofF  afterward,  as  did  some 
men  whom  the  acting  had  moved.  It  seemed  to  her 
a  wholesome  sign  that  he  had  the  courage  of  his 
sympathies ;  one  could  probably  rely  upon  that  type 
of  man.  His  mental  alertness  also  impressed  her 
anew.  For  him  none  of  the  quips  of  the  Irish  or 
German  comedians  were  recondite,  and  he  could 
explain  in  a  nutshell  the  most  bewildering  feats  of 
the  Japanese  adepts  at  sleight  of  hand.  She  won- 


ii4  THE   CRUCIBLE 

dered  not  a  little  at  this  special  knowledge,  and  when 
they  left  the  theatre  he  told  her  that  it  had  been  his 
chief  boyish  ambition  to  become  a  magician. 

"I  drummed  up  subscriptions,  collected  bones,  old 
iron,  and  rubber  for  the  tinman,  peddled  anything 
under  the  canopy  that  folks  would  buy,  all  for  the 
sake  of  a  little  cash  to  get  books  and  apparatus,"  he 
confessed.  "Once,  when  I  was  about  smart  sixteen, 
I  gave  an  exhibition,  part  magic  lantern,  part  magic 
tommyrot.  I  hired  the  village  hall,  mind  you. 
What  cheek  I  had  those  days!" 

Jean  was  keenly  interested.  This,  too,  reminded 
her  of  the  Springs  and  her  own  irrevocable  playtime. 

"Did  people  turn  out?"  she  asked. 

"Did  they!     I  cleared  twelve  dollars." 

"My!"  jeered  Amy.  "I  suppose  you  bought  an 
automobile  ?" 

"No;  they  hadn't  been  invented  yet."  Returned 
again  to  Jean.  "Guess  what  I  did  buy!" 

"More  apparatus." 

"Just  as  quick  as  I  could  get  a  money-order,"  he 
laughed.  "You're  something  of  a  wizard  yourself. 
You  must  have  been  a  boy  once  upon  a  time." 

"Yes,"  said  Jean;  "I  was." 

When  they  reached  the  street  Paul  suggested 
oysters,  and  after  a  faint  demurrer  from  Jean,  which 
a  secret  pinch  from  Amy  abruptly  quenched,  he  led 
the  way  to  a  restaurant.  The  establishment  he 
chose  had  a  German  name,  and  was  fitted  up  in  a 
manner  which  Jean  took  to  be  German  also.  The 


THE   CRUCIBLE  115 

chairs  and  tables  were  of  a  heavy  medieval  design, 
and  matched  the  high  paneling  which  surrounded 
the  room  and  terminated  in  a  shelf  bearing  a  curious 
array  of  mugs  and  flagons.  From  a  small  dais  in 
one  corner  an  orchestra,  made  up  of  a  zither,  two 
mandolins,  and  a  guitar,  discoursed  a  wiry  yet  not 
unpleasant  music  which  seemed,  on  the  whole,  less 
Teuton  than  American,  of  a  most  unclassical  bounce 
and  joyousness.  Paul  apologized  for  this  flaw  in 
an  otherwise  harmonious  scheme,  explaining  that 
the  American  patrons  outnumbered  the  German, 
but  Amy  patriotically  declared  that  ragtime  was 
better  than  foreign  music  any  day,  and  pronounced 
the  entire  place  as  cute  as  it  could  be,  which  really 
left  nothing  else  to  be  said. 

Everybody  was  drinking  beer  with  his  food,  or, 
speaking  more  accurately,  eating  a  little  food  with 
his  beer,  and  Paul  ordered  two  or  three  bottles  of 
the  exceedingly  dark  variety  most  in  vogue,  which 
he  and  Amy  consumed.  Amy  rallied  Jean  upon  her 
abstinence,  and  asked  if  she  had  signed  the  pledge; 
but  Paul  seemed  to  respect  her  scruples. 

"Felt  the  same  way  myself  once,"  he  said. 
"Whenever  the  good  old  scandal  specialists  up  our 
way  saw  a  fellow  slide  into  the  hotel  on  a  hot  day 
for  a  glass  of  lager,  they  thought  he  was  piking 
straight  for  the  eternal  bonfire.  Naturally  the  boys 
punished  a  lot  of  stuff  they  didn't  want,  just  to  live  up 
to  their  reputations.  It's  some  different  down  here." 

"I    should    say    so,"    agreed   Amy,  boisterously. 


ii6  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"Why,  my  stepfather  began  to  send  me  out  for  beer 
almost  as  soon  as  I  could  walk.  The  idea  of  its 
hurting  anybody !  I  don't  believe  I'd  feel  it  if  I 
drank  a  keg." 

Paul  did  not  seem  as  impressed  by  this  statement 
as  were  an  after-theater  party  at  an  adjoining  table, 
and  embraced  a  quiet  opportunity  to  move  an  un- 
finished bottle  out  of  her  enthusiastic  reach.  Jean 
glowed  under  the  scrutiny  of  the  supper-party 
opposite,  and,  exchanging  a  look  with  Paul,  rose 
presently  to  go.  Amy  objected  eloquently,  pointing 
out  that  it  still  wanted  half  an  hour  of  midnight  and 
that  department  stores  did  no  business  Sundays, 
together  with  sundry  arguments  as  trenchant,  which 
plainly  carried  weight  with  the  attentive  tables 
roundabout,  but  failed  to  convince  her  companions. 
Near  the  door  she  fell  in  with  an  unexpected  ally 
in  the  person  of  Mr.  Rose,  who  listened  to  her  pro- 
tests quite  as  sympathetically  as  if  they  had  not  al- 
ready reached  him  across  the  room,  and  promptly 
invited  them  all  to  what  he  termed  a  nightcap  with 
himself.  Jean  declined  civilly,  and  Amy,  though 
sore  tempted,  followed  her  example.  Once  outside, 
however,  she  asserted  her  perfect  independence  by 
walking  off  with  Mr.  Rose  on  his  remarking  easily 
that  he  would  stroll  their  way. 

"Aching  incisors!"  ejaculated  the  dentist,  grimly 
watching  them  forge  ahead.  "Where  did  I  get  the 
foolish  idea  that  I  was  her  escort  ?  Who  is  that 
flower,  anyhow?" 


THE   CRUCIBLE  117 

"An  employee  in  our  store." 

"Oh!"  said  Paul.     "Clerk?" 

"No;    a  floor-walker." 

"Oh  !"  he  said  again,  with  a  change  of  intonation 
which  Jean  detected.  "In  her  department?" 

"No;   in  mine." 

"Oh!" 

Amy's  laugh  came  back  shrilly  through  the  now 
sparsely  frequented  street. 

"I  shouldn't  have  ordered  so  much  beer,"  admitted 
the  man.  "It  was  too  heavy  for  her,  even  if  her 
stepfather  —  but  let's  cut  that  out!" 

Jean  herself  thought  that  this  passage  from  the  Jef- 
fries family  history  might  better  be  left  undiscussed. 
She  quickened  their  pace  till  they  were  close  upon 
Amy's  too  buoyant  heels,  and  so  continued  to  their 
door. 

Amy  was  full  of  regrets  that  she  could  not  at  this 
hour  with  propriety  ask  Mr.  Rose  into  Mrs.  St. 
Aubyn's  drawing-room,  and  as  Paul  inhospitably 
neglected  to  offer  his  quarters,  the  floor-walker,  with 
unflagging  cordiality  and  self-possession,  took  him- 
self off. 

"I  don't  cotton  to  Mr.  Rose,"  said  the  dentist, 
in  a  voice  too  low  for  Amy,  who  was  already  mount- 
ing the  stairs.  "I  hope  you  don't." 

"I  don't  know  him." 

"You  don't  want  to  know  him,  take  my  word  for 
it.  This  isn't  sour  grapes  because  he  butted  in,  mind 
you.  If  you  knew  the  city,  I  wouldn't  say  a  word." 


ii8  THE   CRUCIBLE 

Jean  bent  a  frank  gaze  upon  him  under  the  dim 
hall  light.  Paul  met  it  to  her  satisfaction. 

"Thank  you  for  to-night,"  she  said,  giving  him 
her  hand.  "Thank  you  for  all  of  it;  for  the  theater 
and  the  supper  and  for  —  this." 

Explanations  with  Amy  were  impossible  now,  but 
the  following  morning,  which  the  girls  spent  luxu- 
riously in  bed,  proved  auspicious.  Amy's  waking 
mood  was  contrite.  She  owned  of  her  own  engaging 
accord  that  she  had  made  a  goose  of  herself  in  the 
restaurant,  suggesting  by  way  of  defence  that  her 
stepfather  must  have  favored  quite  another  kind  of 
beer.  She  as  frankly  conceded  that  the  Rose  episode 
was  indefensible,  and  promised  ample  apologies  to 
the  dentist. 

"He'll  understand  how  it  was,"  she  said.  "Paul's 
not  a  Jake  Meyer." 

"Will  Mr.  Rose  understand?"  asked  Jean, 
pointedly. 

Amy  shot  her  a  sidelong  glance. 

"Why  not?" 

"He's  not  — well,  a  Paul  Bartlett." 

"He  isn't  a  Jake  Meyer,  either,  if  that's  what  you 
mean,"  retorted  Amy,  rising  on  her  elbow.  "I 
like  Rosey  and  make  no  bones  of  telling  you.  What 
have  you  got  at  the  back  of  your  big  brown  eyes 
there  ?  Somebody  has  been  stuffing  you,  I  guess. 
Was  it  some  kind  friend  at  Meyer  &  Schwarzschild's  ? 
What  did  they  say  about  Rosey  and  me.?" 

"Nothing,"    answered    Jean,    suspicious    of   her 


THE  CRUCIBLE  119 

warmth ;  but  now  told  her  plainly  whom  and  what 
they  had  mentioned. 

Amy  listened  without  surprise. 

"There  was  bound  to  be  some  gossip,"  she  com- 
mented, at  length.  "I  counted  on  it." 

"You  counted  on  it!'* 

"Certainly.  Jake  knew  the  buyer's  record  from 
A  to  Z,  and  there  were  others." 

Jean  had  a  moment's  giddiness,  and  shrank  from 
her  explorations. 

"Did  you?"  she  faltered. 

"Of  course.  Do  you  suppose  I  couldn't  read  him 
like  a  book  after  all  I've  been  through  ?" 

"Yet  you  went  just  the  same!     You — " 

"  I  trusted  to  luck,  and  for  once  luck  was  with  me. 
He  had  a  big  offer  from  a  Chicago  firm,  and  left  town 
the  very  day  I  went  into  the  cloak  department.  Oh, 
you  needn't  stare,"  she  added,  with  a  touch  of 
passion.  "The  world  hasn't  been  any  too  kind  to 
me,  and  I'm  learning  to  beat  it  at  its  own  selfish 
game.  Don't  let  it  worry  you." 

"I  can't  help  it." 

"Then  you're  silly.  I'm  not  as  soft  as  I  look. 
Besides,  you'll  find  yourself  pretty  busy  paddling 
your  own  canoe." 

Jean  fell  into  a  brooding  silence.  The  new  life 
was  incredibly  complex.  It  held  possibilities  before 
which  imagination  flinched.  A  picture,  recalled 
again  and  again  with  extraordinary  vividness,  flashed 
once  more  before  her.  She  saw  a  camp  among 


120  THE   CRUCIBLE 

birches  bordering  a  pellucid  lake;  a  boyish,  pacing 
figure;  a  straightforward,  troubled  face  confronting 
her  own.  She  evoked  a  voice,  "To  be  a  stranger 
in  New  York,  homeless,  friendless,  without  work, 
the  shadow  of  that  place  over  there  dogging  your 
steps.  ..."  Every  syllable,  every  intonation,  was 
ineffaceable.  Where  was  he  now,  that  flawless 
young  knight  of  the  enchanted  forest,  who  had  stayed 
her  folly  and  changed  the  current  of  her  life  ?  He 
had  promised  to  befriend  her  when,  against  his 
counsel,  she  had  thought  to  dare  this  unknown 
world.  Would  he  still  have  faith,  should  they  meet  ? 

Amy's  laugh  caught  her  back  to  the  room  of  three 
dormers. 

"You  looked  a  million  miles  away,"  she  said. 
"If  you  were  another  sort  of  girl,  I'd  say  you  were 
dreaming  of  your  best  fellow.  What !  Blushes ! 
Then  you  were?  Was  it  Paul?" 

"Paul!"  Jean  repelled  the  suggestion  with  a 
pillow.  "Take  that!" 

They  said  no  more  of  the  buyer  —  he  was  luckily 
out  of  the  reckoning;  and  although  Jean  deemed  the 
dentist  a  wiser  judge  of  men  in  general,  and  of  floor- 
walkers in  particular,  than  Amy,  she  decided  for  the 
present  to  side  with  neither,  but  try  to  weigh  Mr. 
Rose  for  herself.  If  Amy  was  skimming  thin  ice, 
she  was  at  least  a  practiced  skater,  with  the  chasten- 
ing memory  of  a  serious  splash.  Moreover,  to  recur  to 
Amy's  metaphor,  she  had  a  canoe  of  her  own  to  paddle, 
as  she  was  roughly  reminded  that  same  afternoon. 


XII 

IT  happened  at  dusk  while  they  were  returning 
from  Central  Park,  which  Amy  had  selected  as 
a  primary  lesson  in  Jean's  civic  education.  They 
were  homing  by  way  of  Broadway,  and  were  well 
back  into  the  theatrical  section,  when  Jean's  guide 
gripped  her  abruptly  by  the  arm,  dragged  her  into 
the  nearest  doorway,  and  hurried  her  half  up  the 
dark  flight  of  stairs  to  which  it  led.  Even  here  she 
enjoined  silence,  pointing  for  explanation  to  the 
square  of  pavement  framed  by  the  doorway,  into 
which  an  instant  later  loitered  the  bedizened  key  to 
the  riddle  —  Stella  Wilkes. 

There  was  no  mistaking  her.  For  an  interminable 
interval  she  lingered,  watchful  of  the  street,  so  dis- 
tinct under  the  electrics  that  they  could  even  make 
out  her  mole.  Then,  aimlessly  as  she  had  come,  she 
drifted  out  again  and  away. 

"Thank  my  stars  I  saw  her  first  that  time!" 
gasped  Amy,  still  fearfully  intent  upon  the  lighted 
square. 

"You  knew  she  was  in  New  York  ?" 

"Yes.  I've  seen  her  before.  She  came  up  to  me 
one  night  looking  even  worse  than  now.  She  was 
more  painted,  and  her  eyes  were  like  burned  holes. 


122  THE   CRUCIBLE 

She  said  she  was  broke,  but  had  the  promise  of  a 
place.  It  was  to  sing  in  some  gin-mill,  I  think. 
She  can  sing,  you  know.  Remember  how  she'd 
let  her  voice  go  in  chapel,  just  to  show  off?  I 
loaned  her  a  dollar  to  get  rid  of  her.  I  was  afraid 
somebody  I  knew  might  see  us  together.  I  think 
she  saw  I  was  afraid." 

"You  shouldn't  have  let  her  see;  it  gives  her  a 
hold  on  you.  I  shan't  dodge." 

Jean  began  consistently  to  descend,  but  Amy 
caught  her  back. 

"Wait,"  she  pleaded.  "Do  wait  a  little  longer. 
Wait  for  my  sake,  if  you  don't  care  yourself.  But 
you'd  better  fight  shy  of  her,  too,  I  can  tell  you.  She 
hasn't  forgotten  the  prison  riot.  She  mentioned  it 
the  night  I  saw  her,  and  said  she'd  get  plenty  square 
with  you  yet." 

Tricked  by  her  uncertain  nerves,  Jean  came  under 
the  sway  of  Amy's  panic.  They  lurked  cowering  in 
the  hallway  till  sure  of  a  clear  coast;  then,  darting 
forth,  hurried  round  the  first  corner  to  a  quieter 
thoroughfare  which  Stella  would  be  less  apt  to  haunt. 
Here,  too,  they  continually  saw  her  in  imagination, 
and  sought  other  doorways  and  rounded  other  corners 
for  safety.  Fear  tracked  them  home,  plucked  at  them 
in  their  own  street,  mounted  their  own  steps,  entered 
their  own  door,  and  abode  with  them  thereafter. 

Nor,  for  one  of  them  at  least,  did  the  crowded  weeks 
next  following  bring  forgetfulness  or  reassurance. 
Jean  was  ever  expecting  the  dreaded  face  to  leer  at 


THE   CRUCIBLE  123 

her  from  the  blurred  horde  which  swam  daily  by 
the  little  island  in  the  toy  department,  where  she 
sold  children's  games.  While  she  elucidated  the 
mysteries  of  parchesi  or  dissected  maps  to  some 
distraught  mother  of  six,  another  part  of  the  restless 
mechanism  of  her  brain  was  painting  Stella  to  the 
life.  She  pictured  the  outcast's  vindictive  joy  at 
running  her  down,  heard  her  mouth  the  unspeakable 
for  all  who  would  lend  an  ear.  And  who  would 
not !  She  quailed  in  fancy  before  the  gaping  audi- 
ence —  the  curious  shoppers,  the  round-eyed  cash- 
girls,  the  smirking  clerks,  Mr.  Rose,  the  floor-walker. 

Once,  issuing  from  such  a  dream,  she  found  her- 
self face  to  face  with  Mr.  Rose,  who  had  come  un- 
noticed to  her  counter,  and  so  clear-cut  was  the  vision, 
she  merged  the  unreal  with  the  real  and  blenched  at 
his  voice. 

"Not  taking  morphine  lunches,  are  you?"  he 
asked,  leaning  solicitously  over  the  counter. 

She  stared  hazily  till  he  repeated  his  question. 

"Morphine  lunches!     What  are  they?" 

The  man  enacted  the  pantomime  of  applying  a 
hypodermic  syringe  to  his  arm. 

"So,"  he  said.  "Some  of  the  girls  who  can't 
lunch  at  home  get  into  the  way  of  it.  Bad  thing — 
very." 

"Why  should  you  suspect  me  of  such  a  thing?" 
demanded  Jean,  indignantly.  "Do  I  look  like  a 
morphine-fiend  ?" 

"No  offence  intended.     Noticed  a  queer  look  in 


124  THE   CRUCIBLE 

your  eyes,  that's  all.  Stunning  eyes !  I'd  hate  to 
see  'em  full  of  dope.  Perfectly  friendly  interest, 
understand." 

She  welcomed  the  fretful  interruption  of  a  customer, 
but  the  woman  was  only  returning  some  article,  not 
buying,  and  the  transaction  required  the  floor- 
walker's sanction.  When  the  shopper  had  gone  her 
way,  he  leaned  to  Jean  again. 

"If  it's  worry  about  holding  your  place  after  the 
holidays,"  he  said,  "why,  you  can't  quit  it  too  soon. 
We've  watched  your  work,  and  it's  all  right.  The 
forelady  says  you've  learned  the  stock  quicker  than 
any  green  clerk  she's  had  in  a  dog's  age,  and  you 
know  she's  particular.  Whoever  else  goes,  you  stick." 

Jean  gave  a  long  breath  of  thankfulness,  but  she 
was  not  too  happy  to  be  practical. 

"And  the  pay?"  she  asked. 

"The  same  for  the  present.  You're  still  a  be- 
ginner, you  know." 

"  It  is  very  little.  The  girl  who  had  my  place  left 
because  she  could  not  live  on  it,  I  hear." 

Mr.  Rose  tapped  his  prominent  teeth  with  a  pencil. 

"She  said  something  of  the  kind  to  me,"  he 
admitted.  "She  was  unreasonable  —  very.  What 
could  she  expect  of  six  dollars  ?" 

The  handsome  saleswoman  at  the  dolls'  furniture 
counter  was  intoning,  "Oh,  Mr.  Rose!  Oh,  Mr. 
Rose ! "  with  increasing  petulance,  and  the  floor- 
walker sped  to  her,  leaving  his  cryptic  utterance 
unexplained.  Jean  asked  a  fellow-clerk  more  about 


THE   CRUCIBLE  125 

her  predecessor,  and  learned  that  as  she  lived  some- 
where in  the  Bronx,  both  carfare  and  lunches  had 
been  serious  items.  These,  fortunately,  she  herself 
need  not  consider.  It  was  half  the  battle  to  feel 
permanent.  She  could  shift  somehow  on  het  present 
wage  till  promotion  came. 

There  was,  moreover,  a  certain  compensation  in 
feeling  herself  a  factor  in  this  great  establishment 
which  everybody  knew  who  had  heard  of  New  York 
at  all.  It  was  a  show  place  of  the  metropolis,  one 
of  the  seventy  times  seven  wonders  of  the  New  World. 
Its  floor  space  was  reckoned  in  acres,  its  roof  housed 
a  whole  city  block,  its  capital  represented  millions, 
its  wares  the  habitable  globe.  Nothing  essential 
to  human  life  seemed  to  be  lacking.  There  were 
scales  for  your  exalted  babyship's  earthly  advent; 
patent  foods,  healing  drugs,  mechanical  playthings 
for  your  childish  wants  or  ills;  text-books  for  your 
growing  mind;  fine  feathers  for  your  expanding 
social  wings;  the  trousseau  for  your  marriage; 
furnishings  from  cellar  to  attic  for  your  first  house- 
keeping; a  bank  for  your  savings;  fittings  for  your 
office ;  the  postal  service,  the  telegraph,  the  telephone, 
lest  business  suffer  while  you  shop;  bronzes,  carv- 
ings, automobiles,  steam  yachts,  old  wines,  old  books, 
old  masters  for  your  topping  prosperity;  comforts 
innumerable  —  oculists,  dentists,  discreet  photog- 
raphers, what  not  —  for  your  lean  and  slippered 
decline ;  and,  yes,  even  the  sad  few  vanities  you  may 
take  with  you  to  your  quiet  grave. 


126  THE   CRUCIBLE 

It  drew  rich  and  poor  alike  these  days,  and  sooner  or 
later  the  toy  department  gathered  them  in.  Though 
Stella  came  not,  there  were  many  of  familiar  aspect 
who  did.  Hardly  a  day  passed  without  its  greeting 
from  some  one  Jean  knew.  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn  came 
shopping  on  account  of  an  incredible  grandchild 
she  must  remember;  the  bookworm  for  the  cogent 
reason  that  a  cherubic  niece  brought  him ;  the  birds 
of  passage  to  celebrate  an  engagement  obtained  at 
last;  the  shorn  lambs  of  Wall  Street  to  revive  fading 
memories  of  a  full  pocketbook;  the  stenographer 
and  the  manicure  since  they  were  women;  the  den- 
tist because  of  Jean. 

It  was  impossible  to  mistake  Paul's  reason.  Her 
fellow-clerks  hinted  it,  Mr.  Rose  reenforced  their 
opinion  with  his  own,  Amy  added  embroidered  com- 
ment, and  finally  Paul  told  her  explicitly  himself. 
On  the  first  evening,  when  he  appeared  at  her  coun- 
ter near  the  closing  hour,  he  bought  a  game.  At  his 
second  call,  a  week  later,  he  examined  at  length, 
but  did  not  purchase.  The  third  time  he  said  that 
he  had  happened  by;  the  fourth  he  cast  subterfuge 
to  the  winds  and  avowed  frankly  that  he  came  to 
walk  home  with  her. 

"Fact  is,  I'm  lonesome,"  he  explained,  when  they 
reached  the  street.  "Till  you  came  I  never  got  a 
chance  to  talk  to  the  right  sort  of  girl  except  in  the 
operating  chair,  and  that  didn't  cut  much  ice,  for  it 
was  always  about  teeth.  Hope  you  don't  mind  my 
dropping  round  for  you  once  in  a  while  after  office 


THE   CRUCIBLE  127 

hours  ?  It  will  keep  these  street-corner  mashers 
away  from  you  and  do  a  lot  toward  civilizing  me." 

Jean  accepted  his  companionship  as  frankly  as  it 
was  tendered.  There  was  nothing  loverlike  about 
Paul's  attitude.  He  was  precisely  the  same  whether 
they  walked  alone  or  whether,  as  frequently  hap- 
pened, Amy  came  down  with  her  to  the  employees' 
entrance,  where  Jean  had  suggested  that  they  meet. 
His  escort  was  doubly  welcome  during  the  last  week 
before  Christmas  when  the  great  store  kept  open  even- 
ings, and  the  shopping  quarter  held  its  nightly  jam. 
Then,  perhaps  a  fortnight  after  the  holidays,  she 
overheard  a  conversation. 

It  was  not  about  herself,  nor  among  girls  she 
knew,  nor  indeed  in  her  department;  merely  a  scrap 
of  waspish  dispute  between  two  young  persons  of  free 
speech  who  supposed  themselves  in  sole  possession  of 
the  cloak-room.  Black  Eyes  remarked  that  she  knew 
very  well  what  Blue  Eyes  was.  She  didn't  belong 
there;  her  place  was  the  East  Side.  Whereupon 
Blue  Eyes  elegantly  retorted  that  unless  Black  Eyes 
shut  her  mouth,  she  would  smash  her  ugly  face  in. 
This  was  evidently  purely  rhetorical,  for  when  Black 
Eyes  waxed  yet  more  personal,  pointing  out  the  incon- 
sistent relation  of  fifteen-dollar  picture  hats  to  six 
dollars  a  week,  with  pertinent  reference  to  a  bald 
floor-walker  from  the  carpet  department  who  waited 
for  Blue  Eyes  every  night,  the  only  act  of  violence  was 
the  slamming  of  a  door  which  covered  Blue  Eyes's 
swift  retreat. 


128  THE   CRUCIBLE 

That  evening  Jean  told  the  dentist  he  must  come 
no  more. 

"Suffering  bicuspid!"  he  gasped.  "What  have 
/  done  ?"  This  despite  her  tactful  best  to  assure  him 
that  he  had  done  nothing  at  all. 

It  seemed  enormously  difficult  of  explanation  at 
first,  but  when  she  suggested  that  she  found  the  de- 
partment store  not  unlike  a  small  town  for  gossip,  he 
comprehended  instantly. 

"Who  has  been  talking?"  he  demanded.  "If  it 
was  that  pup  of  a  floor-walker  —  " 

"It  wasn't.  So  far  as  I  know,  not  a  soul  has  men- 
tioned my  name.  It's  because  they  mustn't  talk,  that 
I've  spoken." 

Paul  squared  a  by  no  means  puny  pair  of  shoulders. 

"Let  me  catch  'em  at  it!"    he  said. 

She  was  more  watchful  of  her  fellow-clerks  there- 
after. A  few  girls  she  doubted,  but  striking  an  aver- 
age, they  seemed  as  a  class  honest,  hard-working, 
and  monotonously  commonplace,  with  their  loftiest 
ambitions  centered  upon  tawdry  and  impracticable 
clothes.  If  a  girl  dressed  better  than  her  wage 
warranted,  as  many  did,  it  usually  developed  that  she 
lived  with  her  parents  or  with  other  relations  who  gave 
her  cheap  board.  These  lucky  beings  had  also  a 
social  existence  denied  to  the  wholly  self-supporting, 
of  which  Jean  obtained  a  perhaps  typical  glimpse 
through  a  vivacious  little  rattlepate  at  the  adjoining 
mechanical-toy  counter,  with  whom  friendly  overtures 
between  customers  led  to  the  discovery  that  they  were 


THE   CRUCIBLE  129 

neighbors,  and  to  a  call  at  the  three  dormers.  This 
courtesy  Jean  in  due  course  returned  one  evening,  at 
the  paternal  flat  over  an  Eighth  Avenue  grocery, 
where  "Flo,"  as  she  petitioned  to  be  called,  rejoiced 
in  the  exclusive  possession  of  a  small  bedroom  ven- 
tilated, though  scarcely  illumined,  by  an  air-shaft. 

"  Mother  gave  me  this  room  to  myself  when  I  began 
to  bring  in  money,"  she  explained.  "I  only  have  to 
hand  over  two  dollars  a  week.  What's  left  I  spend 
just  as  I  please.  Father  says  I  buy  more  clothes 
than  the  rest  of  the  family  put  together,  and  he 
nearly  threw  a  fit  once  when  I  paid  twelve  dollars 
for  a  lace  hat  trimmed  with  imported  flowers;  but 
all  the  same  he  doesn't  like  to  see  any  of  the  girls  I 
go  with  look  better  than  I  do.  Our  crowd  is  great 
for  dress.  How  do  you  like  my  cozy  corner  ?  I 
think  these  wire  racks  for  photographs  are  sweet, 
don't  you  ?  I  have  such  a  stack  of  fellows'  pictures  ! 
I  wonder  if  you  know  any  of  them.  The  man  in  the 
dress  suit  is  Willy  Larkin  —  he's  in  the  gents'  fur- 
nishing department.  I  put  him  next  to  Dan  Evans 
—  you  know  Dan,  don't  you  ?  —  because  they're 
so  tearing  jealous  of  each  other.  If  Dan  takes  me  to 
a  Sousa  concert  one  night,  Willy  can't  rest  till  he  has 
spread  himself  on  vaudeville  or  some  exciting  play. 
They  almost  came  to  blows  over  a  two-step  I  prom- 
ised both  of  them  at  the  subscription  hop  our  dancing 
club  gave  New  Year's.  That  tintype  you're  look- 
ing at  is  one  Charlie  Simmons  and  I  had  taken  at 
Glen  Island  last  year.  Goodness !  Don't  hold  my 


130  THE   CRUCIBLE 

face  to  the  light.  I'm  a  fright  in  a  bathing-suit.  I 
do  love  bathing,  though,  but  I  think  salt  water  is 
packs  more  fun.  Last  summer  I  had  enough  saved 
for  a  whole  week  at  a  dandy  beach  near  Far  Rock- 
away.  There  was  a  grand  dancing  pavilion,  and  some- 
times you  could  hear  the  waves  above  the  band.  I 
just  love  the  sea  !" 

Jean  was  not  envious,  but  the  girl's  chatter  made 
her  own  existence  outside  the  store  seem  humdrum. 
Mrs.  St.  Aubyn's  circle  was  more  narrow  than  had  at 
first  appeared.  After  a  few  dinners,  it  was  obvious 
that  the  landlady's  talk  was  nearly  always  confined 
to  the  food  and  servants,  as  the  librarian's  was  limited 
to  the  weather,  the  shorn  lambs'  to  things  financial, 
and  the  stenographer's,  the  manicure's,  and  Amy's 
to  feminine  styles,  while  the  birds  of  passage,  whose 
side-lights  upon  the  Profession  had  been  diverting, 
were  now  lamentably  displaced  by  an  insurance  agent 
who  dwelt  overmuch  upon  the  uncertainty  of  human 
life.  It  had  to  be  admitted,  also,  that  Paul  himself 
talked  shop  with  frequency.  His  stories,  like  his 
droll  ejaculations,  were  apt  to  smack  of  the  office ; 
and  he  had  a  habit  of  carrying  gold  crowns  or  speci- 
mens of  bridgework  in  his  pockets,  which,  though  no 
doubt  works  of  art  of  their  kind,  were  yet  often  dis- 
concerting when  shown  in  mixed  company.  At  such 
times  especially,  Jean  would  evoke  that  knightlier 
figure,  who  shone  so  faultless  in  perspective,  and  in 
fancy  put  him  in  Paul's  place. 

She  perceived  the  dentist's  foibles,  however,  with- 


THE   CRUCIBLE  131 

out  liking  the  essential  man  one  whit  the  less,  and, 
in  the  absence  of  the  Ideal,  frequently  took  Sunday 
trolley  trips  with  him  in  lieu  of  the  tabooed  walks 
from  the  store ;  but  the  fear  of  meeting  Stella  made  her 
decline  his  invitations  to  the  theater  and  kept  her 
from  the  streets  at  night.  Paul  took  these  self- 
denials  for  maiden  scruples  beyond  his  masculine 
comprehension,  and  was  edified  rather  than  of- 
fended; but  he  was  at  first  puzzled  and  then  hurt, 
when,  as  spring  drew  on,  the  outings  also  ceased. 
Jean  was  evasive  when  questioned,  while  Amy  looked 
knowing,  but  was  too  loyal  to  explain.  The  stenog- 
rapher or  the  manicure  or,  for  that  matter,  any  normal 
woman  could,  if  asked,  have  told  him  that  Jean  was 
merely  ashamed  of  her  clothes. 

It  was  largely  because  Paul  misunderstood  that 
Jean  resolved  no  longer  to  wait  passively  for  pro- 
motion. Six  dollars  a  week  had  their  limitations, 
since  five  went  always  to  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn  for  board. 
Yet,  out  of  that  scant  margin  of  a  sixth,  she  had 
somehow  scraped  together  enough  to  replace  what 
she  had  used  of  Mrs.  Fanshaw's  grudging  contribu- 
tion, the  whole  of  which  she  despatched  to  Shawnee 
Springs  in  a  glow  of  wrathful  satisfaction  that  cheered 
her  for  many  days.  Nevertheless,  the  want  of  it 
pinched  her  shrewdly.  Those  ten  dollars  would  have 
helped  spare  the  refuge  suit,  which,  fortunately 
black,  did  duty  seven  days  in  the  week  and  looked  it, 
too,  now  that  the  mild  days  began  to  outnumber  the 
raw,  and  other  girls  bloomed  in  premature  spring 


132  THE   CRUCIBLE 

finery.  Many  of  the  bargains  which  the  great  store 
was  forever  advertising  would  have  aided  in  little 
ways,  but  the  management  was  opposed  to  its  em- 
ployees' profiting  by  these  chances. 

During  the  continued  ill  health  of  the  department 
manager,  Mr.  Rose  still  wielded  an  extended  au- 
thority, and  to  him,  accordingly,  Jean  made  her 
appeal,  overtaking  him  on  his  way  to  the  offices  one 
evening  when  the  immense  staff  was  everywhere 
hurrying  from  the  building.  The  carpet  and  up- 
holstery department,  where  they  talked,  was  ever  a 
place  of  mufHed  quiet,  even  with  business  at  high  tide, 
and,  save  for  an  occasional  night-watchman,  they 
seemed  isolated  now.  Rose  heard  her  out,  lounging 
with  feline  complacency  upon  a  soft-hued  heap  of 
Oriental  rugs,  while  his  eyes  roamed  her  eager  face 
with  candid  approval. 

Jean  saw  with  anger  that  he  no  longer  attended. 

"You  are  not  listening,"  she  reproached.  "Can't 
you  appreciate  what  this  means  to  me  ?  Look  at 
my  shoes !  They're  all  I  have.  Look  at  this  suit ! 
It's  my  only  one.  I've  saved  no  money  to  buy  other 
clothes  —  it's  impossible.  You  say  I'm  efficient  — 
pay  me  living  wages,  then.  I  can't  live  on  what  you 
give  me.  I've  tried  and  I've  failed  —  failed  like  the 
girl  before  me." 

The  floor-walker  slid  smiling  from  the  rug  pile. 

"She  was  inconceivably  plain,"  he  said;  "but 
you  — "  He  spread  his  white  hands  in  futile  search 
of  adjectives. 


THE   CRUCIBLE  133 

"Never  mind  my  looks,  Mr.  Rose,"  Jean  struck  in 
curtly.  "I  am  talking  business." 

"So  am  I,  my  dear.  I'm  pointing  out  your  re- 
sources." 

She  did  not  take  his  meaning  fully,  his  leer  not- 
withstanding, and  he  drew  his  own  interpretation 
of  her  silence. 

"You  know  we  don't  lack  for  applicants  here,"  he 
continued.  "There  are  a  dozen  girls  waiting  to 
jump  into  your  shoes.  We  expect  our  low-paid  girls 
to  have  additional  means  of  support.  Some  of  them 
have  families ;  others  —  but  you're  no  fool.  There 
are  plenty  of  men  who'd  be  glad  to  help  you  out. 
Why  don't  you  arrange  things  with  that  young  den- 
tist ?  Or"  —  his  smile  grew  more  saccharine — "if 
that  affair  is  off,  perhaps  I  —  " 

Then  something  transpired  which  he  never  clearly 
understood.  It  was  plain  enough  to  Jean.  In  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye  she  was  again  an  athletic  box- 
ing tomboy,  answering  to  the  name  of  Jack,  before 
whose  scientific  "right"  Mr.  Rose  dropped  with 
crumpled  petals  to  the  floor. 


XIII 

JEAN  stood  over  him  an  instant,  her  anger  still  at 
white  heat,  but  the  floor-walker  had  had  enough  of 
argument  and  only  groveled  cursing  where  he  fell. 
Leaving  him  without  a  word,  she  swept  by  a  grinning 
night-watchman  and  turned  in  at  the  adjacent  offices, 
whither  Rose  himself  was  bound.  She  had  learned 
the  ways  of  the  place  sufficiently  by  now  to  know  that 
members  of  the  firm  often  lingered  here  after  the 
army  which  served  them  had  gone,  and  she  was 
determined  that  her  own  story  should  reach  them 
first.  But  the  office  of  the  head  of  the  firm  was 
dark,  and  the  consequential  voice  which  answered 
her  knock  at  the  door  of  a  junior  partner,  where  a 
light  still  shone,  proved  to  be  that  of  a  belated 
stenographer. 

As  she  turned  uncertainly  away,  Rose,  nursing  a 
swelling  eye,  again  confronted  her. 

"Thought  you'd  take  it  to  headquarters,  did  you  ?" 
he  said.  "I  advise  you  to  drop  it  right  here." 

He  recoiled  as  she  advanced,  and  warded  an  im- 
aginary blow,  but  she  only  passed  him  by  contemptu- 
ously. 

"Are  you  going  to  drop  it  ?"  he  asked,  following  to 

134 


THE   CRUCIBLE  135 

the  stairs.  "I  don't  want  to  see  you  get  into  trouble, 
for  all  your  nasty  temper.  I'm  willing  to  overlook 
your  striking  me." 

His  persistence  only  fixed  her  resolution  to  expose 
him,  and  she  hurried  on  without  reply. 

"Two  can  play  at  that  game,"  he  warned  over  the 
rail. 

In  the  street  she  paused  irresolutely.  The  man 
would,  of  course,  protect  himself  if  he  could,  and  her 
own  story  should  reach  some  member  of  the  firm  to- 
night. If  she  waited  till  morning,  Rose  could  easily 
forestall  her.  Yet  she  had  become  too  sophisticated 
not  to  shrink  from  the  idea  of  trying  to  take  her  griev- 
ance into  one  of  those  men's  homes.  Only  the  other 
day  she  had  picked  up  a  trashy  paper  containing  a 
shop-girl  story,  warmly  praised  by  Amy,  which  nar- 
rated an  incident  of  the  kind.  The  son  and  heir  of 
a  merchant  prince  —  so  the  author  styled  him  - 
had  cruelly  wronged  the  beautiful  shop-girl,  who, 
after  harrowing  sorrows,  took  her  courage  in  her 
hands  and  braved  the  ancestral  hall.  She  gained 
an  entrance  somehow  (details  were  scanty  here)  and 
confronted  the  base  son  and  heir  at  the  climax  of  a 
grand  ball  at  which  the  upper  ten  and  other  numerals 
were  assembled  to  do  honor  to  his  chosen  bride. 
Jean  had  seen  the  absurdity  of  the  picture  as  Amy 
could  not.  Things  did  not  fall  out  this  wise  in  real 
life.  The  beautiful  shop-girl  would  never  have 
gotten  by  the  merchant  prince's  presumably  well- 
trained  servants,  even  if  she  had  eluded  the  specially 


136  THE  CRUCIBLE 

detailed  policeman  at  the  awning,  and  Jean  judged 
that  her  own  chances  would  be  as  slender. 

Nevertheless,  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  left  her 
but  to  try.  She  consulted  a  directory  in  the  next 
drugstore  and  copied  out  the  home  addresses  of  the 
several  members  of  the  firm.  One  of  the  junior 
partners  seemed  to  live  nearest,  though  not  within 
walking  distance,  and  at  this  address  she  finally 
arrived  at  an  hour  when,  judging  Fifth  Avenue  by 
Mrs.  St.  Aubyn's,  she  feared  she  would  find  her  em- 
ployer at  dinner.  She  recognized  the  house  as  one 
which  Amy  had  pointed  out  with  an  air  of  proprietor- 
ship on  their  first  Sunday  walk,  and  she  reflected 
with  misgiving  that  it  was  a  really  plausible  setting 
for  the  drama  of  the  beautiful  shop-girl,  did  such 
things  exist. 

An  elderly  butler  convinced  her  that  this  was  her 
own  drama.  He  was  not  unbearably  haughty,  a 
vast  quantity  of  polite  fiction  to  the  contrary;  and  if 
he  scorned  her  clothes,  he  did  not  let  the  fact  appear. 
His  manner  even  suggested  decorous  regret  that  the 
master  of  the  house  was  not  at  home.  Jean  went 
down  the  steps,  wondering  whether  this  were  an  ar- 
tistic lie,  but,  happily  for  the  servant's  reputation, 
an  electric  cab  at  this  moment  drew  up  at  the  curb  and 
dropped  the  man  she  sought.  She  recognized  him 
at  once,  for  of  all  the  firm  he  had  the  most  striking 
presence,  looking  very  like  the  more  jovial  portraits 
of  Henry  VIII.  Unlike  the  Tudor  king,  however, 
he  was  said  to  be  happily  married  and  of  domestic 


THE   CRUCIBLE  137 

tastes.  He  paused,  giving  her  a  keen  look,  when  he 
perceived  that  she  meant  to  accost  him. 

"I  just  asked  for  you,"  Jean  said.  "I  wanted  to 
speak  to  you  about  something  at  the  store." 

"You  are  one  of  our  employees  ?" 

"Yes.  I  am  a  salesgirl  in  the  toy  department. 
I  wish  to  make  a  serious  complaint." 

"A  complaint?  Your  own  department  is  the 
proper  channel  for  that." 

"I  cannot  ask  the  man  to  judge  himself  "  returned 
Jean,  simply. 

He  gave  her  another  sharp  look. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  with  a  change  of  tone.  "  Come  in." 
Then,  to  the  elderly  butler,  who  during  this  interval 
had  held  the  door  ajar  with  an  air  of  not  listening, 
"The  Study." 

Jean  seemed  to  recall  that  the  beautiful  shop- 
girl had  encountered  a  "study,"  which  could  have 
been  no  more  luxurious  than  this.  She  queried, 
while  she  waited,  what  the  library  and  more  preten- 
tious apartments  could  be  like.  The  room  seemed 
to  her  of  regal  splendor.  It  was  paneled  and  cross- 
beamed,  and  a  fireplace  in  keeping  with  the  archi- 
tecture well-nigh  filled  one  end  wall.  The  light 
fell  from  a  wonderful  affair  of  opalescent  glass 
which  gave  new  tones  to  the  oriental  fabrics  under- 
foot and  added  richness  to  the  lavishly  employed 
mahogany.  No  other  wood  had  been  permitted 
here.  It  glowed  dully  from  beam,  panel,  and  cornice ; 
from  the  mantel,  the  bookshelves,  the  carved  cabi- 


138  THE   CRUCIBLE 

net   concealing   a  safe;    from   the   massive,   griffin- 
legged  desk  at  which  the  owner  of  it  all,  as  florid  as 

OO 

his  taste,  presently  took  his  seat. 

"Now,  then,"  he  said,  "tell  me  explicitly  what  you 
charge." 

She  omitted  nothing.  Her  listener  followed  her 
closely  and  once,  when  she  gave  Rose's  version  of  the 
firm's  policy,  he  shook  his  head  dissentingly,  but 
whether  in  disbelief  of  herself  or  in  condemnation  of 
the  floor-walker,  she  could  not  guess. 

"This  is  a  grave  accusation,"  he  said,  when  she 
had  done.  "It  involves  not  only  Mr.  Rose, — who, 
let  me  say,  has  always  been  most  efficient,  —  but  the 
good  name  of  the  whole  establishment." 

"That  is  one  reason  why  I  came." 

"Of  the  whole  establishment,"  repeated  the  junior 
partner,  as  if  she  had  not  spoken.  "Was  there  a 
third  party  present?" 

"There  was  a  watchman  near  by,  but  he  couldn't 
have  heard  what  was  said." 

"You  are  quite  sure  you  did  not  misunderstand 
Mr.  Rose?" 

"Quite." 

"And  were  not  prejudiced  against  him  in  advance  ? 
Floor-walkers  as  a  class  have  often  been  maligned." 

Jean  reflected  carefully. 

"I  can't  say  no  to  that,"  she  owned  frankly.  "A 
friend  had  a  poor  opinion  of  him  and  said  so  before 
I  began  work,  but  J  tried  not  to  let  that  influence 
me." 


THE   CRUCIBLE  139 

"But  it  did?" 

"A  little,  perhaps.     I  admit  I've  never  liked  him." 

For  a  time  the  big  man  under  the  drop-light  trifled 
absently  with  a  paper-knife. 

"We'll  take  this  matter  up,  of  course,"  he  said 
presently.  "If  we  need  a  housecleaning,  we'll 
have  it;  but  I  can't  believe  that  things  are  radically  at 
fault.  No  department  store  in  the  city  is  more  con- 
siderate of  its  people.  We  were  among  the  first  to 
close  Saturday  afternoons  in  midsummer;  we  offer 
liberal  inducements  for  special  energy  during  the 
holidays;  we  have  provided  exceedingly  attractive 
lunch-rooms;  we  even  hope,  when  trade  conditions 
permit,  to  introduce  a  form  of  profit  sharing.  What 
more  can  we  do  ?" 

Jean  supposed  his  rhetorical  query  personal. 

"You  might  pay  better  wages,"  she  suggested. 
"Then  things  like  this  wouldn't  happen." 

For  the  fraction  of  a  second  King  Henry  wore  one 
of  his  less  amiable  expressions.  It  suggested  behead- 
ing or  long  confinement  in  the  Tower.  Then,  imme- 
diately, it  was  glossed  by  modernity. 

"There  you  trench  upon  economic  grounds,"  he 
rejoined  heavily.  "I  wish  we  might  inaugurate  a 
lecture  course  for  our  employees,  to  elucidate  the 
principles  which  govern  a  great  business.  The  law 
of  supply  and  demand,  the  press  of  competition,  the 
necessity  for  costly  advertising,  these  and  countless 
other  considerations,  which  we  at  the  helm  appreciate, 
never  enter  the  shop-girl's  head." 


140  THE   CRUCIBLE 

Jean  was  overborne  by  these  impressive  phrases. 
They  had  never  entered  her  head,  certainly,  and  she 
was  not  altogether  sure  why  they  should. 

"We  only  ask  a  living,"  she  said. 

"But  you  shouldn't.  We  want  the  girl  who  asks 
pin-money,  the  girl  who  lives  with  her  family.  Have 
you  no  family  yourself,  by  the  way  ?" 

"My  mother  is  living." 

"Is  she  dependent  upon  you  in  any  way  ?" 

"No." 

"Is  she  able  to  provide  for  you  ?" 

"Perfectly." 

"Then  why  doesn't  she  ?" 

Jean's  eyes  snapped. 

"Because  I  won't  let  her." 

Her  listener  shrugged. 

"The  modern  woman!"  he  lamented.  "But 
this  is  beside  the  question.  We  pay  as  others  pay. 
If  a  girl  thinks  it  insufficient,  let  her  find  other 
work.  So  far,  I  uphold  Mr.  Rose.  His  further  ad- 
vice —  as  you  report  it  —  is  another  matter.  As  I 
have  said,  we  will  take  it  up." 

He  touched  a  bell  and  rose,  and  Jean  followed  the 
elderly  servant  to  the  door.  The  impetus  which 
had  brought  her  here  had  subsided  into  great  weari- 
ness of  body  and  spirit,  but  she  went  down  the 
avenue  not  ill  satisfied.  She  had  had  her  hearing. 
She  had  spoken,  not  for  herself  alone,  but  in  a  meas- 
ure for  others.  Moreover,  the  man's  bluff  candor 
seemed  an  earnest  that  justice  would  be  done.  Pre- 


THE   CRUCIBLE  141 

cisely  what  form  justice  would  take,  she  did  not 
speculate. 

Near  her  own  door  she  met  Paul  on  anxious 
lookout  for  her. 

"I  was  beginning  to  imagine  a  fine  bunch  of 
horrors,"  he  said.  "Amy  hadn't  a  ghost  of  a  notion 
what  was  up." 

"I  did  not  tell  Amy  I  should  be  late,"  Jean 
replied.  She  offered  no  explanations,  but  Paul's 
concern  was  grateful  after  what  she  had  under- 
gone, and  she  added,  "I'm  sorry  you  worried." 

He  eyed  her  narrowly,  pausing  an  instant  at  the 
steps. 

"Any  need  for  a  man  of  my  build  ?"  he  inquired. 

"Why  do  you  ask  that?" 

"Because  I  think  you're  in  trouble.  If  I  can 
help  — " 

"No,  no,"  she  returned  hastily.    "  But  thank  you." 

"Something  has  happened?" 

"Yes;   at  the  store.     I  can't  very  well  explain  it." 

"Oh,"  said  Paul,  as  if  explanations  were  needless. 
"I'm  not  so  sure  I  couldn't  be  useful." 

She  felt  that  he  divined  something  of  what  had 
transpired,  his  knowledge  of  the  floor-walker  being 
perhaps  fuller  than  her  own,  but  he  said  no  more. 
Jean  was  singularly  comforted  by  his  attitude,  espe- 
cially since  Amy's,  as  presently  defined,  left  much 
to  be  desired.  She  seemed  less  amazed  at  Rose's 
behavior  than  at  Jean's  active  resentment. 

"I  wouldn't  have  struck  him,"  she  said. 


I42  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"What  would  you  have  done?" 

"I  —  I  don't  know.  At  any  rate,  not  that.  A 
girl  has  to  put  up  with  a  lot." 

"I  presume  you  wouldn't  have  reported  him, 
either?"  Jean  flung  out  bitterly. 

"No;    I  didn't  — I  mean  I  wouldn't." 

Jean  started. 

"  I  think  you  meant  just  what  you  said  first,  Amy," 
she  cried.  "Has  he  told  you  the  same  thing  ?" 

Amy  writhed. 

"N-no,"  she  began;    "that  is—" 

"Almost,  then?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  did  nothing?" 

"I  didn't  dare  do  anything.  I  don't  see  how  you 
dared.  It's  too  big  a  risk." 

"I  would  have  risked  more  in  keeping  quiet.  I 
simply  had  to  take  it  higher  up." 

"But  you  said  Mr.  Rose  offered  to  let  it  drop," 
Amy  timidly  reminded.  "You  could  have  done 
that." 

"That!"  She  had  no  words  to  voice  her 
scorn. 

They  went  to  bed  and  rose  again  in  an  atmosphere 
of  constraint,  and  Jean  walked  to  her  day's  work 
alone.  She  dreaded  meeting  Rose,  and  apprehended 
another  interview  with  the  junior  partner,  an  ordeal 
which  wore  a  more  forbidding  aspect  by  day.  But 
neither  happened.  The  floor-walker  did  not  appear 
in  the  toy  department  at  all,  though  some  one  had 


THE   CRUCIBLE  143 

seen  him  enter  the  building.  It  was  rumored  that 
he  was  ill. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  afternoon  Jean  noticed 
that  she  had  become  an  object  of  some  interest  to 
the  forewoman,  and  wondered  hopefully  if  this 
influential  personage  had  marked  her  for  promotion. 
Her  pay-envelope,  for  it  was  Saturday,  shortly  fur- 
nished a  clew  to  the  mystery  in  the  shape  of  a  neat  slip 
informing  her  that  her  services  were  no  longer 
required. 

"I'm  to  answer  questions  if  you  have  any,"  the 
forewoman  told  her,  shortly;  "but  I  guess  you 
understand." 

The  girl  turned  a  chalky  face  upon  her. 

"But  I  don't—" 

"Then  you're  slower  than  I  thought.  The  firm 
has  looked  you  up,  that's  all." 

Jean  realized  the  monstrous  injustice  of  it  but 
slowly. 

"I  don't  see,"  she  faltered. 

"Bosh  !"  cut  in  the  woman,  impatiently.  "Don't 
try  to  flimflam  me.  Lord  knows  what  kind  of  game 
you  were  working,  but  you  had  more  nerve  than 
sense.  You  might  have  guessed  when  you  tried  to 
put  your  bare  word  against  Mr.  Rose's  that  they'd 
make  it  their  business  to  find  out  just  what  your  word 
was  worth.  Your  last  employer  told  them." 

"Told  them  what?"  blazed  Jean. 

"What  do  you  suppose  ?  That  you'd  done  time  in 
a  reformatory,  of  course." 


XIV 

IN  her  dark  hour  came  Paul. 

"I  know,"  he  said,  hunting  her  out  in  the  corner 
of  the  melancholy  drawing-room  where  she  sat 
Sunday  afternoon  with  absent  eyes  upon  "The 
Trial  of  Effie  Deans."  "Some  of  it  I  guessed,  and  a 
little  more  filtered  from  Amy  via  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn,  but 
I  got  the  finishing  touch  from  a  man  in  the  store." 

"The  store!"  Jean  had  a  moment  of  acute  dis- 
may ;  she  would  fain  leave  Paul  his  illusions.  "What 
man?" 

"A  chap  in  the  drug  department  I  do  work  for 
now  and  then.  He  turned  up  at  the  parlors  this 
morning.  We're  open  Sundays  from  'leven  to  one, 
you  know." 

Then,  the  refuge  spectre  had  followed  here !  She 
could  not  look  him  in  the  face.  But  Paul's  next 
words  reassured. 

"He  didn't  mention  names,  but  I  put  two  and  two 
together  quick  enough  when  he  told  me  that  one  of 
their  new  girls  knocked  out  a  fresh  floor-walker  the 
other  night.  I  was  proud  I  knew  you." 

"Did  he  know  of  my  —  my  discharge  ?" 

"No." 

144 


THE   CRUCIBLE  145 

"You  didn't  mention  it  yourself?"  Jean  faltered. 
"Or  my  name  ?" 

Paul's  look  was  sad. 

"That's  a  shade  lower  down  than  I  think  I've  got," 
he  observed  loftily.  "A  man  who'd  lug  in  a  lady 
friend's  name  under  such  circumstances  wouldn't 
stop  at  the  few  trifles  that  still  feaze  me.  He  — 
why,  he'd  even  gold-crown  an  anterior  tooth!" 

She  hastened  to  mollify  him,  relieved  beyond 
measure  that  his  chance  informant  knew  nothing 
of  the  real  reason  for  her  dismissal.  Amy  could  be 
trusted  to  conceal  it  for  her  own  sake.  Then  Paul 
stirred  her  anxiety  afresh  with  a  request. 

"I  want  to  polish  off  Mr.  Rose,"  he  said,  doubling 
his  fist  suggestively.  "You  made  a  good  beginning, 
but  the  pup  needs  a  thorough  job.  I  know  where  he 
boards  —  he  told  me  that  night  he  butted  in;  and 
if  you'll  just  let  me  call  round  as  a  friend  of  yours  — " 

"No,  no.     Promise  me  you  won't!" 

"  But  he  needs  it,"  argued  the  dentist,  plaintively. 
"I'd  also  like,  if  it  could  be  managed,  to  say  a  few 
things  to  the  head  of  the  firm." 

"Indeed  you  mustn't,"  cried  Jean.  "Promise 
me  you'll  say  nothing  about  it  in  any  way !" 

"Can't  I  even  tell  Rose  what  I  think?" 

"Never.  I've  got  to  accept  this  thing  and  make 
a  new  start.  I  must  forget  it,  not  brood  over  it. 
You  mustn't  thrash  him,  you  mustn't  tell  him  what 
you  think  —  above  all,  you  mustn't  go  to  the  firm. 
Promise  me  you  won't!" 


I46  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"All  right,"  he  assented,  manifestly  puzzled.  "A 
girl  looks  at  things  differently.  I've  got  another 
proposition,  though,  which  I  hope  you  won't  veto. 
Any  prejudice  against  dentists,  present  company 
excepted  ?" 

"No,"  smiled  Jean. 

"Some  folks  have,  you  know.  Can't  understand 
it  myself.  Why  isn't  it  as  high-toned  to  doctor  teeth 
as  it  is  to  specialize  an  inch  higher  up,  say,  on  the 
nose  ?  Yet  socially  the  nose-specialist  gets  the  glad 
hand  in  places  where  the  dentist  couldn't  break  in 
with  a  Krupp  gun.  It  makes  me  hot.  But  enough 
said  along  that  line  just  now.  What  I  started  in  to 
tell  you  is  that  there's  an  opening  at  the  parlors." 

"For  me  — a  girl?" 

"  For  a  girl  ? "  Paul  pretended  to  weigh  this  handi- 
cap gravely.  "Of  course,  a  lady  assistant  is  generally 
a  man,  but  still — " 

Jean  was  unfamiliar  with  this  adjunct  of  modern 
dentistry. 

"What  must  she  do?"  she  asked. 

"  Be  a  lady  and  assist.  That  sums  it  all  up.  Some 
old  fogies  would  specify  thirty  summers  and  a  homely 
face,  but  I  believe  in  a  cheery  office  straight  through. 
We've  been  looking  round  for  the  right  party  lately  — 
the  girl  who  has  the  berth  now  is  going  to  be  married ; 
but  it  never  occurred  to  me  to  offer  it  to  you  until 
to-day.  It  would  mean  eight  dollars  a  week  right 
at  the  start,  and  a  raise  just  as  soon  as  they  appreciate 
what  an  air  you  give  the  whole  place.  There'd  be 


THE   CRUCIBLE  147 

more  still  in  it  if  you  liked  the  work  well  enough  to 
branch  out." 

"Branch  out?     In  what  way?" 

"Operating-room.  At  first  you'll  act  as  secretary 
and  cashier,  receive  patients,  and  see  that  the  hulk 
of  a  janitor  keeps  the  parlors  neat.  Then,  if  you  get 
on  as  I  think  you  will,  you'll  very  likely  have  an 
assistant  yourself,  and  put  in  most  of  your  time 
elsewhere.  A  clever  girl  can  be  no  end  of  help  in 
the  operating-room.  Say,  for  instance,  I'm  doing 
a  contour  filling,  which,  let  me  tell  you,  needs  an 
eagle-eye  and  the  patience  of  a  mule.  Well,  while 
I  pack  and  figure  how  to  do  an  artistic  job,  you 
anneal  gold  and  pass  it  to  me  in  the  cavity.  See 
what  I  mean  ?  One  bright  little  woman  we  had  for 
a  while  drew  thirty-five  a  week,  but  she  was  a  trained 
nurse,  too." 

Jean  had  doubts  of  her  usefulness  amid  these 
technicalities,  but  the  office  work  sounded  simple, 
and  she  caught  thankfully  at  the  chance. 

The  dentist  waved  aside  her  gratitude. 

"I'm  simply  doing  a  good  stroke  of  business  for 
the  Acme  Painless  Dental  Company,"  he  said.  "I'll 
tell  Grimes  in  the  morning  that  I've  located  the  right 
party,  —  Grimes  is  the  company,  by  the  way,  the 
whole  painless  ranch,  —  and  you  can  drop  in  later 
and  cinch  the  deal." 

Jean's  thoughts  took  a  leap  ahead  to  ways  and 
means,  and  she  drew  a  worn  shoe  farther  beneath 
her  skirt. 


i4*  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"You're  sure  I'll  do?"  she  hesitated. 

"You!  I  only  wish  you  could  see  some  of  the 
procession  who've  answered  our  ad."  Then,  al- 
most as  if  he  read  her  mind,  he  added  with  unwonted 
bashfulness:  "If  I  were  in  your  place,  I'd  borrow 
Amy's  black  feather  boa  for  your  first  call.  It  suits 
you  right  down  to  the  ground." 

She  took  the  hint  laughingly.  There  were  more 
things  than  the  boa  to  be  borrowed  for  the  conquest 
of  Grimes.  She  was  touched  by  Paul's  transparent 
diplomacy,  and  glad  that  in  his  slow  man's  way  he 
had  at  last  perceived  why  their  outings  had  ceased. 
So,  by  grace  of  Paul  and  Amy,  it  fell  out  before 
another  week  elapsed  that  the  affianced  lady  assist- 
ant of  the  Acme  Painless  Dental  Company  left 
to  prepare  for  her  bridal,  and  Jean  reigned  in  her 
stead. 

The  company's  outworks  on  Sixth  Avenue  were 
a  resplendent  negro  and  a  monumental  show-case, 
both  filled  with  glittering  specimens  of  the  painless 
marvels  accomplished  within.  The  African  wore  a 
uniform  of  green  and  gold,  and  all  day  forced  adver- 
tisements into  the  unwilling  hands  of  passers-by, 
chanting  meanwhile  the  full  style  and  title  of  the 
establishment  in  a  voice  which  soared  easily  above 
the  roar  of  the  elevated  trains  overhead.  Passing 
this  personage,  you  mounted  a  staircase  whose  every 
step  besought  you  to  remember  the  precise  where- 
abouts of  the  parlors,  while  yet  other  placards  of  like 
import  made  clear  the  way  at  the  top  and  throughout 


THE   CRUCIBLE  149 

the  unmistakable  corridor   leading  to  the  true  and 
only  Acme  Painless  Dental  Company's  door. 

Entering  here  to  the  trill  of  an  electric  bell,  you  came 
full  upon  the  central  office,  or,  as  the  leaflets  read,  the 
elegant  parlor,  from  which  the  operating-rooms  led 
on  every  hand.  In  character  this  apartment  was 
broadly  eclectic.  Jean's  special  nook,  with  its 
telephone,  cash-register,  and  smart  roll-top  desk, 
was  contemporary  to  the  minute;  yet  in  the  corner 
diagonally  opposed,  a  suit  of  stage  armor  jauntily 
bade  the  waiting  patient  think  upon  knights,  jousts, 
and  the  swashbuckling  Middle  Ages.  In  still  another 
quarter  a  languorous  slave  girl  of  scanty  raiment,  but 
abundant  bangles,  postured  upon  a  teak-wood 
tabouret,  backed  by  way  of  further  realism  with 
Bagdad  hangings  and  a  palm  of  the  convenient 
species  which  no  frost  blights  and  an  occasional 
whisk  of  the  duster  always  rejuvenates.  The  chairs 
were  frankly  Grand  Rapids  and  built  for  wear, 
though  the  proprietor's  avowed  taste  ran  to  a  style 
he  called  "Lewis  Quince";  and  the  gilt  he  might  not 
employ  here  he  lavished  upon  the  frames  of  his  pic- 
tures, which,  nearly  without  exception,  were  night- 
scenes  wherein  shimmering  castle  windows  or  the 
gibbous  moon  were  cunningly  inlaid  in  mother-of- 
pearl.  In  the  midst  of  all  this,  now  pacifying  the 
waiting  with  vain  promises  of  speedy  relief,  now 
pottering  off  into  this  room  or  that  in  as  futile  attempts 
to  make  each  of  several  sufferers  believe  his  blunder- 
ing services  exclusive  —  big,  easy-going,  slovenly, 
yet  popular  —  moved  Grimes. 


150  THE   CRUCIBLE 

Of  the  operating-rooms,  which  by  no  means 
approached  the  splendor  of  the  parlor,  the  next  best 
to  Grimes's  own  was  Paul  Bartlett's,  for  Paul  was 
a  person  of  importance  here.  Of  the  four  assistant 
dentists,  he  was  at  once  the  best  equipped  and  the 
best  paid,  receiving  a  commission  over  and  above 
his  regular  thirty-five  dollars  a  week.  The  more 
discriminating  of  the  place's  queer  constituency  coolly 
passed  Grimes  by  in  Paul's  favor,  but  the  elder  man 
was  not  offended.  A  month  or  so  after  Jean's 
coming  he  even  offered  his  clever  helper  a  partner- 
ship, which  Paul  unhesitatingly  declined.  He  was 
ambitious  for  an  office  of  his  own,  when  his  capital 
should  permit,  and  he  planned  it  along  lines  which 
would  have  fatigued  his  slipshod  employer  to  con- 
ceive. 

"It's  all  too  beastly  bad,"  he  told  Jean,  in  answer 
to  her  query  why  he  did  not  accept  Grimes's  offer 
and  insist  on  reform.  "You'd  simply  have  to  burn 
the  shop  from  laboratory  to  door-mat.  To  advertise 
as  he  does  is  against  the  code  of  dental  ethics,  and  his 
practice  ought  to  be  jumped  on  by  the  board  of 
health.  Look  at  this  junk!"  he  added,  shaking  an 
indignant  fist  under  the  nose  of  the  slave  girl.  "  Lord 
knows  how  many  good  dollars  it  cost,  and  yet  we 
haven't  got  more  than  one  decent  set  of  instruments 
in  the  whole  shebang.  I  reach  for  a  spatula  or  a 
plugger  that  I've  laid  down  two  minutes  before,  and 
I  find  it's  been  packed  off  by  old  Grimes  to  use  on 
another  patient.  As  for  sterilizing  —  faugh  !  You 


THE    CRUCIBLE  151 

could  catch  anything  here.  How  he's  shaved  through 
so  far  without  a  damage  suit  euchres  me." 

"Yet  I  like  him,"  said  Jean. 

"So  do  I.  So  does  everybody.  And  he's  getting 
rich  on  the  strength  of  it." 

"I'm  getting  rich  on  the  strength  of  it,  too,"  Jean 
laughed.  "Next  week  I  shall  really  be  able  to  put 
money  in  the  bank." 

Better  paid,  better  dressed,  with  easy  work  and 
not  infrequent  leisure  to  read,  she  felt  that  at  last 
she  had  begun  to  live.  Her  position  long  retained  a 
flavor  of  novelty,  for  the  dental  company's  patrons 
were  infinitely  various  and  furnished  endless  topics 
of  interest  to  herself  and  Paul.  They  usually  went 
to  and  from  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn's  together,  and  as  the 
summer  excursion  season  drew  on,  their  Sunday 
pleasurings  began  to  flourish  afresh.  Sometimes 
Amy  joined  them,  but  more  often  she  made  labored 
excuses,  and  they  went  alone.  Jean  thought  her 
more  secretive  and  reserved  than  of  old,  and  Paul, 
too,  remarked  a  change. 

"How  did  you  two  get  chummy?"  he  asked 
abruptly,  after  one  of  Amy's  declinations.  "You're 
not  at  all  alike." 

"Chums  are  usually  different,  aren't  they?"  Jean 
said,  her  skin  beginning  to  prickle. 

"Not  so  much  as  you  two.  You're  a  lady  and  she 
—  well,  she  isn't.  Known  her  some  time?" 

"Yes." 

"Where  did  you  meet  ?    You  were  certainly  green 


152  THE   CRUCIBLE 

to  the  city  when  you  struck  our  house.  Amy's 
an  East  Sider  Simon-pure." 

"It  was  in  the  country.  Amy  stayed  in  the  coun- 
try once." 

"Shawnee  Springs?" 

"No,  no.     Another  place." 

"Was  that  where  you  knew  Miss  Archer?" 

Jean  turned  a  sick  face  upon  him,  but  Paul's 
own  countenance  was  without  guile. 

"I've  overheard  you  and  Amy  mention  her  once 
or  twice,"  he  explained. 

"Yes,"  she  stammered.  "We  both  knew  her 
there." 

"Out  of  breath  ?"  he  said,  still  too  observant.  "I 
thought  we  were  taking  our  usual  gait." 

She  blamed  the  heat  and  led  him  to  speak  of  other 
things,  but  the  day  was  spoiled.  She  debated 
seriously  whether  it  were  not  wise  to  make  a  clean 
breast  of  her  refuge  history,  but  Paul's  belief  in  her 
unworldliness  had  its  sweetness,  and  the  fit  chance 
to  dispel  his  illusion  somehow  had  not  come  when 
Stella,  for  weeks  almost  forgotten,  so  involved  the  coil 
that  frankness  was  impossible. 


XV 

MOTLEY  as  were  the  dental  company's  patrons, 
Jean  never  entertained  the  possibility  of  Stella's 
crossing  the  threshold,  till  her  coming  was  an  accom- 
plished fact.  Luckily  she  happened  to  be  elsewhere 
in  the  office  when  the  bell  warned  her  that  some  one 
had  entered,  and  she  was  able,  accordingly,  to  sight 
the  caller  with  her  admiring  gaze  fixed  upon  the 
slave  girl.  Her  own  retreat  was  instant  and  blind, 
and  by  a  spiteful  chance  took  her  full  tilt  into  the 
arms  of  Paul. 

"What's  up?"  he  demanded,  holding  her  fast. 
"What's  happened  to  you?" 

She  was  dumb  before  his  questions.  He  noticed 
her  pallor  and  helped  her  into  the  nearest  operating- 
chair. 

"There  is  a  patient  waiting,"  she  got  out  at  last. 

"You're  the  first  patient,"  he  said;  and  brought 
smelling-salts,  which  he  administered  with  a  liberal 
hand.  "You  girls  eat  a  roll  for  breakfast  and  a 
chocolate  caramel  for  lunch,  and  then  wonder  why 
you  faint." 

She  finally  persuaded  him  to  leave  her  on  her 
promising  that  she  would  not  stir  till  his  return,  and 
he  went  in  her  stead  to  receive  Stella,  whom  he 

153 


154  THE   CRUCIBLE 

brought  to  a  room  so  near  that  almost  every  word 
was  audible.  Stella  had  evidently  visited  the  par- 
lors before.  She  addressed  Paul  familiarly  as 
"Doc,"  spoke  of  other  work  he  had  done  for  her,  and 
lingered  to  make  conversation  after  he  had  fixed  an 
appointment.  The  dentist's  responses  were  cool  and 
perfunctory,  and  in  leaving  she  chaffed  him  on  having 
lost  his  old-time  sociability. 

He  returned  with  a  red  face  to  find  Jean  outwardly 
herself. 

"Better?"  he  said  awkwardly. 

"Much  better." 

Paul  fidgeted  with  the  mechanism  of  the  chair. 

"As  long  as  you're  O.K.  now,"  he  went  on,  "I'm 
not  sorry  you  missed  that  party.  That's  the  worst 
of  Grimes.  He  caters  to  all  sorts.  You  heard  her 
talk,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Yes." 

He  furtively  studied  her  face.  "  I  hope  you  don't 
think  we're  as  friendly  as  she  made  out?" 

"Oh,  no." 

Paul  looked  greatly  relieved. 

"I  bank  a  lot  on  what  you  think,"  he  said.  "You're 
the  kind  of  girl  who  makes  a  fellow  want  to  toe  the 
mark." 

"Don't,"  she  entreated,  writhing  under  his  praise. 
"You  rate  me  too  high." 

"Too  high!"  He  laughed  excitedly  and  caught 
her  hand  when  she  moved  to  go.  "You  didn't  mind 
my  telling  you?"  Then,  without  awaiting  a  reply, 


THE   CRUCIBLE  155 

he  blurted :  "There's  a  heap  more  to  say.  I  want  to 
take  you  out  of  all  this  —  away  from  such  riffraff 
as  the  girl  you  didn't  see;  I  want  —  I  want  you, 
Jean." 

She  tried  to  speak,  but  he  read  refusal  in  her 
troubled  eyes  and  cut  her  short. 

"  Don't  answer  now,"  he  begged.  "  I  didn't  expect 
to  tell  you  this  so  soon.  I  don't  expect  you  to  say  yes 
straight  off.  I'm  not  good  enough  for  you,  Lord 
knows,  but  nobody  could  care  more.  Promise  me 
you'll  think  it  over.  Promise  me  that,  anyhow." 

She  would  have  promised  anything  to  escape. 
Again  at  her  desk,  she  strove  to  think  things  out,  but 
from  the  whirl  of  her  thoughts  only  one  fixed  pur- 
pose emerged :  she  must  know  the  day  and  hour  of 
Stella's  intended  return,  for  this  detail  had  escaped 
her.  Making  some  excuse,  therefore,  when  Paul 
came  for  her  at  closing  time,  she  watched  him  to  the 
street  and  then  hurried  to  search  his  operating-room 
for  the  little  red-covered  book  in  which  his  personal 
appointments  were  kept.  It  was  not  in  its  usual 
place,  however,  nor  in  his  office-coat  behind  the  door, 
nor  in  any  possible  drawer  of  the  cabinet.  He  had 
evidently  slipped  it  into  some  pocket  of  the  suit  he 
wore. 

She  dragged  home  in  miserable  anxiety,  pinning 
all  her  hopes  on  obtaining  a  glance  at  the  book  while 
the  dentist  was  at  dinner;  but  this  plan  failed  her, 
too,  since  that  night,  contrary  to  his  custom,  Paul 
made  no  change  in  his  dress.  The  book  was  in  his 


156  THE   CRUCIBLE 

possession.  Of  this  she  was  certain,  for  a  corner  of 
its  red  binding  gleamed  evilly  at  her  from  beneath 
his  coat.  Once,  in  an  after-dinner  comparison  of 
biceps,  which  the  insurance  agent  inaugurated  in  the 
hall,  the  thing  actually  fell  to  the  floor  at  her  feet, 
only  to  be  noted  by  a  watchful  chorus  before  she 
might  even  think  of  advancing  a  casual  ruffle.  She 
devised  a  score  of  pretexts  for  asking  Paul  to  let  her 
see  it,  any  one  of  which  would  have  passed  muster 
before  his  enamored  eyes,  but  she  dismissed  each  as 
too  flimsy  and  open  to  suspicion;  and  so,  before  a 
safe  course  suggested  itself,  the  evening  was  gone, 
and  she  climbed  her  three  flights  to  spend  hours  in 
horrid  wakefulness  succeeded  by  even  more  merciless 
dreams. 

Fate  was  kinder  on  the  morrow.  Paul  laid  the 
appointment-book  upon  an  open  shelf  of  his  cabinet 
in  the  course  of  the  forenoon,  and  she  seized  a 
moment  when  he  was  scouring  the  establishment  for 
one  of  his  ever-vagrant  instruments,  to  wrest  its 
secret  at  last.  She  found  the  record  easily.  It  was 
among  the  engagements  for  that  very  day:  "Miss 
Wilkes,  11-11.30."  The  little  clock  on  the  cabinet 
indicated  ten  minutes  of  eleven  now ! 

She  evaded  Paul,  who  was  returning,  caught  up 
her  hat,  and  telling  Grimes  that  she  was  too  ill  to 
work  that  day  —  which  the  big  incompetent  sym- 
pathetically assured  her  he  could  see  for  himself  — 
fled  in  panic  to  the  stairs  only  to  behold  Stella's 
nodding  plumes  already  rounding  the  sample  show- 


THE   CRUCIBLE  157 

case  below.  Fortunately  she  was  mounting  with 
head  down,  and  it  took  Jean  but  an  instant  to  dart 
for  the  staircase  to  the  floor  above,  from  whose 
landing,  breathless,  lax-muscled,  yet  safe,  she  fol- 
lowed Stella's  rustling  progress  to  the  dental  com- 
pany's door.  When  she  cautiously  descended,  the 
hall  reeked  with  a  musky  perfume  from  which  she 
recoiled  as  from  a  physical  nearness  to  the  woman 
herself. 

Luncheon  brought  Paul  and  questions  which  she 
answered,  as  she  could,  from  behind  her  closed  door. 
He  had  no  suspicion  of  the  real  cause  of  her  sudden 
leaving,  ascribing  her  indisposition,  as  yesterday, 
to  insufficient  nourishment,  and  joined  his  imagina- 
tion to  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn's,  and  that  of  the  proprietor 
of  a  neighboring  delicatessen  shop,  in  the  heaping 
of  a  tray  whose  every  mouthful  choked.  It  tortured 
her  to  brazen  out  this  deception,  but  unaided  she 
could  see  no  other  way,  and  advisers  there  were 
none.  She  might  have  confided  in  Amy,  had  the  need 
arisen  earlier;  but  Amy  was  become  a  creature  of 
strange  reserves  and  silences. 

She  left  her  room  at  evening  and  braved  the  galling 
solicitude  of  the  dining  room.  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn  was 
for  extracting  her  precise  symptoms,  and  led  a  dis- 
cussion of  favorite  remedies,  to  which  nearly  all 
contributed  some  special  lore,  from  the  librarian, 
who  swore  by  a  newspaper  cholera  mixture,  to  the 
bankrupt,  whose  panacea  was  Adirondack  air.  Paul 
refrained  from  the  talk,  perceiving  that  Jean  wished 


158  THE   CRUCIBLE 

nothing  so  much  as  to  be  let  alone.  He  was  more 
silent  than  she  had  ever  known  him  at  table,  and  she 
twice  surprised  him  in  a  brown  study,  of  which  Amy 
was  seemingly  the  subject.  Dinner  over,  he  brought 
about  a  tete-a-tete  in  an  upper  hall,  a  meeting  made 
easy  by  the  boarders'  summer  custom  of  blocking 
the  front  steps  in  a  domestic  group,  of  which  Mrs. 
St.  Aubyn,  watchful  of  other  clusters  obviously  less 
presentable,  was  the  complacent  apex. 

"I  didn't  trot  out  a  remedy  downstairs,"  he  said, 
"but  I've  got  one  all  the  same.  It's  a  vacation." 

"  But  -    '  Jean  began. 

"No  'buts'  in  order.  I've  got  the  floor.  It's  a 
vacation  you  need,  and  it's  a  vacation  you'll  have. 
Grimes  has  arranged  everything.  You're  to  have  a 
week  off,  beginning  to-morrow,  and  your  pay  will 
go  on  same  as  ever." 

"This  is  your  doing." 

"No,"  he  disclaimed;  "it's  Grimes's.  I  only  told 
him  it  would  do  you  more  good  now  than  in  August. 
It  was  due  you  anyhow." 

"But  I'm  not  sick,"  she  protested.  "I  can't  let 
you  think  I  am.  It's  not  right  to  deceive  — " 

"The  question  now  before  the  house,"  Paul  calmly 
interposed,  "is,  Where  do  you  want  to  spend  it? 
How  about  Shawnee  Springs?" 

"No." 

"Thought  not.  You  never  mention  the  Springs 
as  though  you  pined  to  get  back.  Ever  try  Ocean 
Grove,  where  the  Methodists  round  up  ? " 


THE   CRUCIBLE  159 

"No." 

"Then  why  don't  you  ?  There's  more  fun  in  the 
place  than  you'd  think.  They  can't  spoil  the  ocean, 
and  Asbury  Park  is  just  a  stone's  throw  away  when- 
ever the  hymns  get  on  your  nerves.  I  mention 
Ocean  Grove,  because  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn's  sister  has  a 
boarding-house  there  —  Marlborough  Villa,  she  calls 
it  —  where  she'll  take  you  cheap,  coming  now  before 
the  rush.  I'll  run  down  Sunday  and  see  how  you're 
making  out." 

He  had  an  answer  for  every  objection,  and  in  the 
end  Jean  let  herself  be  persuaded,  although  to  yield 
here  seemed  to  imply  a  tacit  assent  to  other  things 
she  was  wofully  unready  to  meet.  The  future 
stretched  away,  a  jungle  of  complexity.  Perhaps  the 
sea,  the  real  sea  she  had  never  beheld,  for  Coney 
Island  did  not  count,  would  help  her  think  it  out. 

Early  the  following  morning  the  dentist  saw  her 
aboard  the  boat. 

"You'll  not  mind  if  I  come  down  ?"  he  asked. 

She  smiled  "No"  a  little  wanly,  but  he  went  away 
content.  Sunday  would  be  crucial,  she  foresaw.  He 
would  press  for  his  answer  then,  and  she Per- 
haps the  salt  breeze  would  shred  these  mists. 

But  neither  the  breeze,  full  of  the  odor  of  sanctity, 
which  cooled  encamped  Methodism,  nor  the  secular, 
yet  not  flagrantly  sinful,  atmosphere  of  the  twin 
watering-place,  had  aided  much  when  the  week-end 
brought  Paul  to  solve  the  riddle  for  himself. 

Many  things  allied  in  his  favor.     In  the  first  place, 


160  THE   CRUCIBLE 

Jean  was  unfeignedlv  glad  to  see  him,  as  the  agitated 

J  O  ,•      O  O 

veranda  rockers  of  Marlborough  Villa  bore  witness. 
In  a  world  which  she  had  too  often  found  callous, 
Paul  Bartlett,  for  one,  had  proved  himself  a  practical 
friend.  She  felt  a  distinct  pride  in  him,  too,  as  he 
withstood  the  brunt  of  the  veranda  fire;  a  pardon- 
able elation  that,  in  a  social  scheme  overwhelmingly 
feminine,  she  led  captive  so  presentable  a  male. 

Again,  Paul  was  tactful  in  following  up  his  wel- 
come. His  only  concern  Saturday  evening,  and 
throughout  Sunday  till  almost  the  end,  was  seemingly 
to  give  her  pleasure.  Sometimes  she  played  the 
cicerone  to  her  own  discoveries :  now  a  model  of 
Jerusalem,  its  Lilliputian  streets  littered  with  the 
peanut  shucks  of  appreciative  childhood;  the  pavilion 
where  free  concerts  were  best;  the  bathing-beach 
where  the  discreetly  clothed  crowd  was  most  divert- 
ing; or  a  little  lake,  remote  from  the  merry-go- 
rounds  and  catch-penny  shows,  which  she  secretly 
preferred  to  all.  Or  Paul  would  display  the  results 
of  his  past  researches.  He  knew  an  alley  in  one  of 
the  great  hotels,  where  she  had  from  him  her  first 
lesson  in  the  ancient  game  of  bowls ;  a  catering  es- 
tablishment whose  list  of  creams  and  ices  exceeded 
imagination ;  and  a  drive  —  Sunday  morning  this  — 
past  opulent  dwellings,  whose  tenants  they  com- 
miserated, to  an  old  riverside  tavern  overhung  by 
noble  trees. 

Sundown  found  them  watching  the  trampling  surf 
from  the  ramparts  of  their  own  sand-castle,  which 


THE   CRUCIBLE  161 

Paul,  guided  by  her  superior  knowledge  of  things 
mediaeval,  had  reared.  The  transition  from  sand- 
castles  to  air-castles  was  easy,  and  presently  the  man 
was  mapping  his  future. 

"  Grimes  wants  me  to  renew  our  contract,"  he  said. 
"It  runs  out  October  first,  you  know.  But  I  think 
it's  up  to  me  to  be  my  own  boss.  I've  got  what  I 
needed  from  the  dental  company  —  practical  expe- 
rience. If  I  stay  on,  I  may  pick  up  some  things  I 
don't  need,  just  as  the  other  fellows  finally  drop  into 
old  Grimey's  shiftless  ways.  I  don't  want  to  take 
any  of  his  smudge  into  my  office.  He  can  keep  his 
gilt  gimcracks  and  his  slave  girl  and  his  bogus  armor. 
A  plain  reception-room,  but  cheerful,  I  say;  and  an 
operating-room  that's  brighter  still.  Canary  or  two, 
maybe ;  plants  —  real  plants  —  and  fittings  strictly 
up  to  date.  Electricity  everywhere,  chair  best  in 
the  market,  instruments  the  finest  money  will  buy, 
but  out  of  sight.  No  chamber  of  horrors  for  me ! 
As  for  location,  give  me  Harlem.  I  know  a  stack  of 
folks  there,  and  I  like  Harlem  ways.  I've  even  looked 
up  offices,  and  I  know  one  on  a  'Hundred-and-twenty- 
fifth  Street  that  just  fills  the  bill.  Well,  that's  part 
of  the  programme." 

Jean  was  roused  from  visions  of  her  own. 

"I  know  you'll  succeed,"  she  said. 

"That's  part  of  the  programme,"  he  repeated;  then, 
less  confidently:  "The  other  part  includes  a  snug 
little  flat  just  round  the  corner,  where  a  fellow  can 
easily  run  in  for  lunch.  I  don't  mean  a  bachelor's 

M 


i6z  THE   CRUCIBLE 

hall.  I  mean  a  bona-fide  home,  with  a  wife  in  it  — 
a  wife  named  Jean!" 

He  was  a  likable  figure  —  clean-cut,  earnest, 
manly  —  as  he  waited  in  the  dusk,  and  the  home  he 
offered  had  its  appeal.  Marriage  would  solve  many 
problems.  She  would  be  free  of  the  grinding  struggle 
for  a  livelihood,  which  the  stigma  of  the  refuge  made 
dangerous.  She  would  be  free  of  the  fear  of  such 
vengeance  as  Stella  could  wreak.  If  the  need  arose, 
it  would  be  a  simple  matter,  once  they  were  married, 
to  tell  Paul  the  truth  of  things.  His  love  would  make 

light  of  it.  As  for  her  love But  what  was 

love  ?  Where  in  life  did  one  meet  the  rose-colored 
dream  of  fiction  ?  Love  was  intensified  liking,  and 
Paul,  as  has  been  recorded,  was  a  likable  figure  — 
clean-cut,  earnest,  manly  —  as  he  waited  in  the  dusk. 

Yet,  even  then,  recurred  a  still  undimmed  picture 
wherein,  against  a  background  of  forest  birches, 
there  shone  an  indubitable  hero  of  romance. 


XVI 

JEAN  shrank  from  the  congratulations  of  the  board- 
ing-house and  the  office,  and  they  decided  at  the  out- 
set to  keep  their  engagement  to  themselves. 

"Not  barring  your  mother,  of  course,"  Paul 
amended.  "To  play  strictly  according  to  Hoyle,  I 
expect  I  ought  to  drop  her  a  line.  What  do  you 
think?" 

"It  won't  be  necessary,"  Jean  said. 

The  dentist  sighed  thankfully. 

"Glad  to  hear  it.  The  chances  are  she'd  say  no, 
straight  off  the  bat,  if  I  did.  Letter-writing  isn't  my 
long  suit.  What  will  you  say  about  a  proposition 
like  me,  anyhow?" 

"Nothing." 

"Nothing?     Least  said  the  better,  eh?" 

"I  mean  I'm  not  going  to  write." 

"Not  at  all?" 

"Not  till  we  are  married.     I  will  write  home  then." 

Paul  whistled  meditatively. 

"Mind  telling  why?"  he  queried.  "Can't  say 
that  this  play  seems  according  to  Hoyle,  either." 

Jean's  real  reason  was  rooted  in  a  fear  that  Mrs. 
Fanshaw's  erratic  conscience  might  be  capable  of  a 
motherly  epistle  to  Paul,  setting  forth  the  refuge  his- 

163 


164  THE   CRUCIBLE 

tory.  So  she  answered  that  she  and  her  family 
were  not  in  sympathy,  and  was  overjoyed  to  find  that 
Paul  thought  her  excuse  valid. 

"I  know  just  how  you  feel,"  he  said.  "My  gov- 
ernor and  I  could  never  hit  it  off.  But  about  writing 
your  mother:  we'll  need  her  consent,  you  know. 
You're  still  under  twenty-one." 

"I  come  of  age  September  tenth." 

"But  we  want  to  be  married  the  third  week  in 
August." 

"We  can't,"  said  Jean;  and  that  was  the  end  of  it. 

This  postponement  notwithstanding,  it  seemed  to 
her  that  she  fairly  tobogganed  toward  her  marriage. 
Even  before  her  return  to  work,  Paul  notified  Grimes 
of  his  intention  to  shift  for  himself  after  October  and 
leased  the  office  of  which  he  had  told  her.  With  the 
same  energy,  of  which  he  gratefully  assured  her  she 
was  the  dynamo,  he  promptly  had  her  hunting  Har- 
lem for  the  little  flat,  just  around  the  corner,  of  his 
imaginings.  For  so  modest  a  thing,  this  proved 
singularly  elusive,  and  it  took  a  month  of  Sundays, 
besides  unreckoned  week-day  explorations,  before 
they  lit  finally  upon  what  they  wanted,  in  a  building 
so  new  that  the  plumbers  and  paper-hangers  still 
overran  its  upper  floors. 

The  "Lorna  Doone"  was  an  apartment  house. 
The  prospectus  said  so;  the  elevator  and  the  hall 
service  proved  it.  Mere  flats  have  stairs  and  ghostly 
front  doors  which  unseen  hands  unlock.  Mere  flats 
have  also  at  times  an  old-fashioned  roominess  which 


THE   CRUCIBLE  165 

apartments  usually  lack;  but  as  Paul,  out  of  a  now 
ripe  experience  with  agents  and  janitors,  justly  re- 
marked, they  have  no  tone.  This  essential  attribute 
-  the  agents  and  janitors  agreed  that  it  was  essen- 
tial —  seemed  to  him  to  exhale  from  the  Lorna 
Doone  with  a  certainty  not  evident  in  many  higher- 
priced  buildings  whose  entrances  boasted  far  less 
onyx  paneling  and  mosaic.  Besides  tone  or,  more 
correctly  perhaps,  as  a  constituent  of  tone,  this  edifice 
had  location,  which  Jean  was  surprised  to  learn  was 
a  thing  to  be  considered  even  in  this  happily  unfash- 
ionable section. 

There  was  Harlem  and  Harlem,  it  appeared; 
and  taught  partly  by  Paul,  partly  by  the  real  estate 
brokers,  she  became  adept  in  the  subtle  distinctions 
between  streets  which  seemingly  differed  only  in  their 
numerals.  For  example,  there  was  a  quarter,  the 
quarter  to  be  accurate,  once  called  Harlem  Heights, 
which  now  in  the  full-blown  pride  of  its  cathedral, 
its  university,  and  its  hero's  mausoleum,  haughtily 
declared  itself  not  Harlem  at  all.  They  had  scaled 
this  favored  region  in  their  quest,  admired  its  parks, 
watched  the  Hudson  from  its  airy  windows,  and  hoped 
vainly  to  find  some  nook  their  purse  might  com- 
mand ;  but  they  had  to  turn  their  steps  from  it  at  last. 
This  glimpse  of  the  unattainable  was  a  strong,  if  not 
controlling,  factor  in  their  final  choice. 

"We  can't  be  hermits  and  live  in  a  hole,"  Paul 
argued.  "I  know  a  big  bunch  of  people  here  al- 
ready, and  we'll  soon  know  more.  We've  got  to 


i66  THE   CRUCIBLE 

hold  up  our  end.  Nice  name  we'd  get  in  our  club 
if  we  didn't  entertain  once  in  a  while  like  the  rest." 

"Our  club!"  she  echoed.     "We're  to  join  a  club  ?" 

"Sure.  Bowling  club,  I  mean.  Everybody  bowls 
in  Harlem.  We  must  think  about  the  office,  too. 
It's  the  women  who  make  or  break  a  dentist's  prac- 
tice, and  sooner  or  later  they  find  out  how  he  lives 
and  the  kind  of  company  he  keeps." 

After  a  reflective  silence  he  frightened  her  by  ask- 
ing abruptly  whether  she  remembered  a  loud  girl 
who  had  come  to  the  dental  parlors  for  an  appoint- 
ment the  day  of  her  first  illness. 

"The  chatty  party  who  thought  I  wasn't  sociable," 
he  particularized.  "Her  name's  Wilkes." 

Jean  remembered. 

"Well,  she  came  back,"  pursued  the  dentist, 
slowly.  "  I  filled  a  tooth  for  her  the  next  morning. 
She  had  a  good  deal  to  say." 

She  brought  herself  to  look  at  him.  If  the  past 
must  be  faced  now,  she  would  meet  it  like  the  honest 
girl  she  was.  But  Paul's  manner  was  not  accusing, 
and  when  he  spoke  again,  it  was  of  neither  Stella  nor 
herself. 

"How  much  does  Amy  get  a  week  ?"   he  asked. 

She  told  him,  and  he  nodded  as  over  a  point  proved. 

"Would  it  surprise  you  to  hear  that  she  draws 
five  dollars  less  ?  That  does  surprise  you,  doesn't 
it?" 

"  How  do  you  know  ? " 

"My  drug-department  patient  told  me  long  ago. 


THE   CRUCIBLE  167 

I  didn't  think  much  about  it  at  the  time,  for  some  girls 
dress  well  on  mighty  little;  but  when  —  well,  the 
long  and  short  of  it  is,  that  Wilkes  woman  knows 
Amy!" 

Jean  pulled  herself  together  somehow.  Amy's  de- 
fense was  for  the  moment  her  own. 

"Need  that  condemn  Amy?"    she  said. 

"Of  course  not,"  returned  Paul  judiciously.  "It 
might  happen  to  you,  or  anybody.  Perhaps  she 
says  she  knows  me.  It's  the  way  she  came  to  know 
her  that  counts.  The  Wilkes  girl  got  very  confiden- 
tial when  I  left  her  mouth  free.  She  had  tanked  up 
with  firewater  for  the  occasion,  and  it  oiled  her  tongue. 
I  didn't  pay  much  attention  until  Amy  Jeffries's  name 
slipped  out,  but  I  listened  after  that.  I  thought  it 
was  due  you." 

"And  she  said  —  ?" 

"She  said  a  lot  I  won't  rehash,  but  it  all  boils  down 
to  the  fact  that  they  both  graduated  from  the  same 
reformatory." 

She  must  tell  him  now!  White-faced,  miserable, 
she  nerved  herself  to  speak. 

"Paul!"    she  appealed. 

He  was  instantly  all  concern  for  her  distress. 

"Don't  take  it  so  hard,"  he  begged.  "She  isn't 
worth  it." 

"You  don't  understand.     I  —  I  knew." 

"You  knew  what  ?" 

"About  the  —  reformatory.  I  once  told  you  I 
met  Amy  in  the  country." 


i68  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"I  remember." 

"Well,"  the  confession  came  haltingly,  "it  was  the 
refuge  I  meant.  I  met  her  at  the  refuge." 

She  waited  with  eyes  averted  for  the  question  which 
should  bare  all.  Instead,  she  suddenly  felt  Paul's 
caress  and  faced  him  to  meet  a  smile. 

"You  are  a  trump!"  he  ejaculated.  "To  know 
all  the  while  and  never  give  her  away !" 

He  had  not  understood !  Trembling  like  a  re- 
prieved criminal,  she  heard  him  go  on  to  complete  his 
self-deception. 

"  I  was  going  to  ask  you  to  let  Amy  slide  after  we 
were  married,"  he  said,  "but  if  you  believe  in  her  this 
much,  I  reckon  she's  worth  helping.  I  don't  suppose 
all  refuge  girls  are  of  the  Wilkes  stripe." 

The  crisis  past,  she  half  regretted  that  she  could 
not  have  screwed  her  courage  to  the  point  of  a  full 
confession,  but  this  feeling  was  transitory.  Paul 
rested  content  with  his  own  explanations  and  talked 
of  little  else  than  their  flat,  and  she,  too,  presently 
found  their  home-building  absorbing. 

A  more  minute  inspection  of  the  Lorna  Doone, 
after  the  signing  of  the  lease,  revealed  that  the  outer 
splendor  had  its  inner  penalties. 

"Looks  like  a  case  of  rob  Paul  to  pay  Peter,  this 
trip,"  said  the  dentist.  "Peter  is  the  owner's  first 
name,  you  know.  The  woodwork  is  cheap,  the  bath- 
tubs are  seconds,  and  the  closets,  as  you  say,  aren't 
worth  mentioning.  I'll  gamble  the  building  laws 
have  been  dodged  from  subcellar  to  cornice.  I  hear 


THE   CRUCIBLE  169 

he  has  run  up  a  dozen  like  it,  and  every  blessed  one 
on  spec.  That's  why  we're  getting  six  weeks'  rent 
free.  It's  anything  to  fill  the  house  and  hook  some 
sucker  who  hankers  for  an  investment  and  never 
suspects  the  leases  don't  amount  to  shucks." 

"Don't  they?" 

"Ours  doesn't.  Why,  the  man  as  much  as  told 
me  to  clear  out  when  the  building  changes  hands,  if 
I  like." 

Jean  looked  round  the  bright  little  toy  of  a  kitchen 
where  they  stood. 

"I  shan't  want  to  leave,"  she  said.  "It  already 
seems  like  home." 

It  seemed  more  and  more  a  home  as  their  prepara- 
tions went  forward.  They  were  not  supposed  to 
enter  into  formal  possession  till  late  in  August,  but 
the  complaisant  owner  gave  Paul  a  key  some  weeks 
before  and  made  no  objection  to  their  moving  in  any- 
thing they  pleased.  So  it  fell  out  that  their  modest 
six-rooms-and-bath  in  the  Lorna  Doone  became  in  a 
way  a  sanctuary  to  which  they  went  evenings  when 
they  could,  and  made  beautiful  according  to  their 
light. 

It  was  a  precious  experience.  Such  wise  planning 
it  involved  !  Such  ardent  scanning  of  advertisements, 
such  sweet  toil  of  shopping,  such  rich  rewards  in  mid- 
summer bargains !  They  did  not  appreciate  the 
magnitude  of  their  needs  till  an  out-of-the-way  store, 
which  fashion  never  patronized,  put  them  concretely 
before  their  eyes  in  a  window  display.  In  successive 


170  THE   CRUCIBLE 

show-windows,  each  as  large  as  any  of  their  rooms 
at  the  Lorna  Doone,  this  enterprising  firm  had  de- 
ployed a  whole  furnished  flat.  Furthermore,  they 
had  peopled  it.  In  the  parlor,  which  one  saw  first, 
a  waxen  lady  in  a  yellow  tea-gown  sat  embroidering 
by  the  gas-log,  while  over  against  her  lounged  a  waxen 
gentleman  in  velvet  smoking-jacket  and  slippers  — 
a  most  inviting  domestic  picture,  even  though  its  at- 
mosphere was  somewhat  cluttered  with  price- 
marks. 

"That's  you  and  me,"  said  Paul,  tenderly  ungram- 
matical. 

Jean  was  less  romantically  preoccupied. 

"I'd  quite  forgotten  curtains,"  she  mused. 
"They'll  take  a  pretty  penny." 

Thereupon  the  dentist  discovered  things  which  he 
had  overlooked. 

"We  must  have  a  bookcase,"  he  said.  "That 
combination  case  and  desk  certainly  looks  swell. 
What  say  to  one  like  it  ?" 

"Have  you  any  books?" 

"I  should  smile.  I've  got  together  the  best  little 
dental  library  you  can  buy." 

"Then  you'll  keep  it  at  your  office,"  decided  Jean, 
promptly.  "When  we  have  a  library  about  some- 
thing besides  teeth,  we'll  think  about  a  case." 

The  shopkeeper's  imaginative  realism  extended 
also  to  the  other  rooms.  Real  fruit  adorned  the  din- 
ing room  buffet;  the  neat  kitchen  was  tenanted  by  a 
maid  in  uniform,  whom  they  dubbed  "Marie"  and 


THE   CRUCIBLE  171 

agreed  that  they  could  do  without;  while  in  one  of 
the  bedrooms  they  came  upon  a  crib  whose  occupant 
they  studiously  refrained  to  classify. 

"But  for  kitchenware,"  said  Paul,  abruptly,  "the 
five-and-ten-cent  stores  have  this  place  beaten  to  a 
pulp." 

With  this,  then,  as  a  working  model,  to  which  Paul 
was  ever  returning  for  inspiration,  they  made  their 
purchases.  It  was,  of  course,  his  money  in  the 
main  which  they  expended,  but  Jean  also  drew  gen- 
erously on  her  small  hoard.  They  vied  with  each 
other  in  planning  little  surprises.  Now  the  dentist 
would  open  some  drawer  and  chance  upon  a  kit  of 
tools  for  the  household  carpentering,  in  which  his 
mechanical  genius  reveled;  or  Jean  would  find  her 
kitchen  the  richer  for  some  new-fangled  ice-cream 
freezer,  coffee-machine,  or  dish-washer  which,  in 
Paul's  unvarying  phrase,  "practically  ran  itself." 
They  derived  infinite  amusement  also  from  the 
placing  and  replacing  of  their  belongings  —  a  far 
knottier  problem  than  any  one  save  the  initiate  may 
conceive,  since  the  wall  spaces  of  flats,  as  all  flat- 
dwellers  know,  are  ingeniously  designed  to  fit  noth- 
ing which  the  upholsterer  and  the  cabinet-maker 
produce.  Luckily  they  discovered  this  profound 
law  early  in  their  buying,  though  not  before  Paul, 
adventuring  alone  among  the  "  antique "  shops  of 
Fourth  Avenue,  fell  victim  to  an  irresistible  bargain  in 
the  shape  of  a  colonial  sideboard  which,  joining  forces 
with  an  equally  ponderous  bargain  of  a  table,  block- 


172  THE   CRUCIBLE 

aded  their  little  dining  room  almost  to  the  exclusion 
of  chairs. 

Half  the  zest  of  all  this  lay  in  its  secrecy;  for  al- 
though the  boarding-house  suspected  a  love-affair,  - 
and  broadly  hinted  its  suspicions,  —  it  innocently 
supposed  their  frequent  evenings  out  were  spent  at 
the  theaters.  Quite  another  theory  prevailed  at  the 
Lorna  Doone,  however,  as  Jean  learned  to  her  dis- 
may one  Sunday  when  she  was  addressed  as  "Mrs. 
Bartlett"  by  the  portly  owner,  whom  they  passed  in 
the  entrance  hall. 

"Oh,  they've  all  along  taken  it  for  granted  we're 
married,"  said  Paul,  carelessly.  "I  thought  it  was 
too  good  a  joke  to  spoil." 

Jean  did  not  see  its  humor. 

"We  must  explain,"  she  said. 

"And  be  grinned  at  for  a  bride  and  groom ! 
What's  the  use  ?  It  will  be  true  enough  two  weeks 
from  now." 

She  privily  decided  that  she  would  undeceive  the 
owner  at  the  first  opportunity,  but  the  chance  to 
speak  had  not  presented  itself  when  far  graver  hap- 
penings brushed  it  from  her  thoughts  as  utterly  as  if 
it  had  never  been. 


XVII 

AMY  had,  in  fairness,  to  be  told  as  August  waned. 
To  Jean's  suggestion  that  very  likely  either  the 
stenographer  or  the  manicure  would  be  glad  to  share 
the  room  of  the  three  dormers,  she  replied  that  she 
could  easily  afford  to  keep  it  on  by  herself  while  she 
remained. 

"  It  won't  be  for  long,"  she  vouchsafed  airily.  "  In 
fact,  I'm  going  to  be  married  myself." 

Jean's  arms  went  round  her  instantly,  the  restraint 
of  months  forgotten. 

"And  you've  never  breathed  a  word!"  she  re- 
proached. 

"No  more  have  you,"  retorted  Amy,  glacial  under 
endearments. 

"  I  know,  I  know.  But  you  have  seemed  so  differ- 
ent. You  have  kept  to  yourself,  and  I  thought — " 

"You  thought  I  wasn't  straight,"  Amy  took  her  up 
bitterly  as  Jean  hesitated.  "I  knew  mighty  well 
what  was  in  your  mind  every  time  I  got  a  new  shirt- 
waist or  a  hat." 

"You  weren't  frank  with  me." 

"I  couldn't  be." 

"I  don't  see  why." 

"Because,"  she  wavered,  melted  now,  "because 
you  are  you,  so  strait-laced  and  —  and  strong.  I've 

173 


174  THE   CRUCIBLE 

always  been  afraid  to  tell  you  just  how  things  stood." 

"Afraid,  Amy  ?  Afraid  of  me  !"  Jean  felt  keenly 
self-reproachful.  "I  am  horribly  sorry.  Heaven 
knows  I  haven't  meant  to  be  unkind.  I've  found  my 
own  way  too  hard  to  want  to  make  things  worse  for 
anybody  else,  you  above  all.  You  believe  me,  don't 
you?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  be  your  old  self,  the  Amy  who  made  friends 
with  me  in  Cottage  No.  6.  Who  is  he  ?  Any  one  I 
know?" 

"You've  met  him." 

"I  have!     Where?" 

Amy's  color  rose. 

"Remember  the  night  you  struck  New  York?" 

"Perfectly." 

"And  the  traveling  man  who  jollied  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,"  she  faltered,  "he's  the  one.  His  name  is 
Chapman." 

Jean  was  too  staggered  for  a  prompt  response,  but 
Amy  was  still  toiling  among  her  explanations. 

"You  mustn't  think  anything  of  his  nonsense  that 
night,"  she  went  on.  "  It  was  only  Fred's  way.  He's 
a  born  flirt.  You  couldn't  help  liking  him,  Jean,  if 
you  knew  him." 

Jean  met  her  wistful  appeal  for  sympathy,  woman- 
wise.  Words  were  impossible  at  first.  By  and  by, 
when  she  could  trust  herself  to  speak,  she  wished 
her  happiness. 


THE   CRUCIBLE  175 

"Does  he  —  know  ?"  she  added. 

Amy's  fair  skin  went  a  shade  rosier. 

"  My  record,  you  mean  ?  Nobody  knows  it  better. 
Don't  you  —  don't  you  catch  on,  Jean  ?  He  was  the 
-  the  man !" 

"He!  You've  taken  up  with  him  again!  The 
man  who  saw  your  stepfather  send  you  to  the  refuge 
and  never  lifted  a  finger  — " 

"Don't!" 

"Who  let  his  child—" 

"Stop,  I  tell  you!"  She  barred  Jean's  lips  pas- 
sionately. "You  see!  Is  it  any  wonder  I  couldn't 
bear  to  tell  you  ?  I  wish  to  God  I'd  never  said  a 
word." 

Jean  stared  blankly  at  this  lamb  turned  lioness. 

"Forgive  me,"  she  begged.  "Perhaps  I  don't 
understand." 

"Understand!  You!"  She  laughed  hysterically. 
"Yet  you're  going  to  be  married  !  If  you  loved  Paul 
Bartlett,  you'd  understand." 

"You  must  not  say  that." 

"Then  don't  say  things  that  hurt  me.  Under- 
stand !  If  you  did,  you  would  know  that  it  would 
make  no  difference  if  he  was  rotten  clear  through. 
But  he's  not.  Fred  never  knew  about  the  baby.  He 
cried  when  he  heard  —  cross  my  heart,  he  did.  He 
said  if  he'd  known  —  but  what's  the  use  of  digging 
up  the  past !  He  is  trying  to  make  up  for  it  now. 
He's  been  trying  ever  since  we  ran  across  each  other 
again.  It  was  in  the  cloak  department  he  caught  sight 


i76  THE   CRUCIBLE 

of  me,"  she  digressed  with  a  pale  smile.  "I  was 
wearing  a  white  broadcloth,  sable-trimmed  evening 
wrap,  and  maybe  he  didn't  stare !  He  couldn't 
do  enough  for  me.  That's  where  the  new  clothes 
came  from.  I  could  have  had  money  if  I'd  wanted  it 
—  money  to  burn,  for  he  makes  a  lot;  but  I  wouldn't 
touch  it.  It  would  have  looked  —  oh,  you  see  for 
yourself  I  could  not  take  money.  You  don't  sell 
love,  real  love,  and  God  knows  mine  is  real !  I've 
never  stopped  loving  him.  I  never  can." 

She,  too,  it  appeared  when  she  grew  more  calm, 
aspired  to  be  mistress  of  a  flat. 

"Though  not  at  the  start,"  she  continued.  "Fred 
wants  to  board  at  first.  He  says  I've  had  work 
enough  for  one  while.  I  said  I  shouldn't  mind  that 
kind  of  work,  but  he  is  dead  set  on  boarding,  till  I've 
had  a  good  long  rest.  Fred  can  be  terrible  firm. 
But  by  and  by  we're  to  keep  house,  and  you'll  be 
able  to  tell  me  just  what  to  do  and  buy.  You  will, 
won't  you,  Jean?"  she  ended  anxiously.  "You'll 
stick  by  me  ?" 

"Yes,"  Jean  promised. 

"And  you'll  come  to  see  me  —  afterward?  Say 
you'll  come." 

"Yes,  I'll  come." 

"And  you  won't  let  Fred  suspect  that  you've  heard 
about  —  about  everything  ?  I  want  him  to  see  that 
I  know  a  girl  like  you.  I've  talked  to  him  about 
you,  but  I've  never  let  on  that  you're  a  refuge  girl 
yourself.  Promise  me  you  will  be  nice  to  him!" 


THE   CRUCIBLE  177 

"I'll  try." 

Amy  kissed  her  fervently. 

"This  makes  me  awful  happy,"  she  sighed.  "I 
think  a  heap  of  you,  Jean.  Honest,  I  do.  You 
come  next  to  Fred." 

As  a  proof  of  her  affection  she  presently  bought  a 
wedding  gift  of  a  pair  of  silver  candelabra  which  she 
could  ill  afford,  and  which  Jean  accepted  only  because 
she  must.  These  went  to  flank  Grimes's  gift — for  he 
was  party  to  the  secret  now  —  a  glittering  timepiece 
for  their  mantel,  densely  infested  with  writhing  yet 
cheerful  Cupids,  after  the  reputed  manner  of  his  ad- 
mired "  Lewis  Quince."  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn's  contribu- 
tion was  a  framed  galaxy  of  American  poets :  Bryant, 
Emerson,  Longfellow,  Whittier,  Lowell,  Holmes, 
and  Walt  Whitman,  the  last  looking  rakishly  jocular 
at  the  Brahminical  company  in  which  he  found  him- 
self thus  canonized. 

Everything  was  finally  in  place  at  the  Lorna 
Doone,  and  with  the  actual  beginning  of  their  lease- 
hold Paul  moved  his  personal  chattels  from  Mrs. 
St.  Aubyn's  to  the  flat,  and  slept  there  nights.  This 
was  the  twenty-fifth  of  August.  A  week  later  Jean 
climbed  the  Acme  Painless  Dental  Company's  sign- 
littered  stairway  for  her  last  day's  service.  She  was 
a  little  late,  owing  to  a  fire  which  had  impeded  traffic 
in  a  near-by  block,  and  the  morning's  activity  at  the 
parlors  was  already  under  way.  She  busied  herself 
first,  as  usual,  at  her  desk,  sorting  the  mail  which  the 
postman  had  just  left.  In  addition  to  the  office 


178  THE   CRUCIBLE 

mail  there  were  personal  letters  for  Grimes  and  the 
various  members  of  the  staff,  which  she  presently  be- 
gan to  distribute,  reaching  Paul's  operating-room  last 
of  all. 

The  dentist  was  at  work,  but  he  glanced  up  when 
she  entered  and  sent  her  a  loverlike  look  over  his 
patient's  head.  No  creature  with  eyes  and  a  rea- 
soning brain  could  have  misread  it,  and  the  occupant 
of  the  chair,  who  had  both,  squirmed  to  view  its  ob- 
ject; but  Paul  threw  in  a  strategic  "Wider,  please," 
and  held  the  unwilling  head  firmly  to  the  front. 

"Chuck  them  anywhere,  Jean,"  he  directed,  his 
glance  dropping  to  her  hand. 

Her  obedience  was  literal;  the  next  instant  the 
letters  strewed  the  rug  at  his  feet.  With  the  enun- 
ciation of  the  name,  the  patient  twisted  suddenly 
from  Paul's  grasp,  and  Jean  found  herself  staring  full 
into  the  malignant  eyes  of  Stella  Wilkes. 

Paul  first  found  voice. 

"We'll  go  on,  Miss  Wilkes,"  he  said,  his  gaze  still 
intent  upon  the  tragic  mask,  which  was  Jean. 

Stella  waved  him  aside. 

"Hold  your  horses,  Doc,"  she  rejoined  coolly. 
"I've  met  an  old  friend." 

"Do  you  know  each  other?"  It  was  to  Jean  he 
put  the  question. 

Stella  answered  for  her. 

"Do  I  know  Jean  Fanshaw!"  Sure  of  how 
matters  stood  between  these  two,  sure  also  of  her 
own  role  in  the  drama,  she  sprang  from  the  chair 


THE   CRUCIBLE  179 

and  bestowed  a  Judas  kiss  upon  Jean's  frozen  cheek. 
"Do  I  know  her!  Why  we're  regular  old  pals!" 

Freed  somehow  from  that  loathsome  touch,  Jean 
stumbled  to  her  desk.  Patients  came  and  went,  the 
routine  of  the  office  ran  its  course;  her  share  in  the 
mechanism  got  itself  mechanically  performed;  yet, 
whether  she  sped  or  welcomed,  plied  the  cash-register, 
receipted  bills,  or  soothed  a  nervous  child,  some  spite- 
ful goblin  at  the  back  of  her  brain  was  ever  whispering 
the  shameful  tale  which  Stella  was  pouring  out  in  that 
inner  room.  Those  lies  would  be  past  Paul's  for- 
getting, perhaps  even  past  his  forgiving,  say  what  she 
might  in  defense.  His  look  at  Stella's  kiss  had  been 
ghastly.  What  was  he  thinking  now ! 

Then,  when  her  agony  of  suspense  seemed  bear- 
able no  longer,  came  Stella,  her  pretense  of  friendship 
abandoned,  her  real  vengeful  self  to  the  fore. 

"I  guess  we're  square,"  she  bent  to  whisper,  her 
face  almost  touching  Jean's.  "I  guess  we're 
square." 

She  vanished  like  the  creature  of  nightmare  she 
was,  but  the  nightmare  remained.  Paul  would  de- 
mand his  reckoning  now.  He  would  come  and  stand 
over  her  with  his  accusing  face  and  ask  her  what  this 
horror  meant.  She  could  not  go  to  him,  she  felt,  or 
at  least  unless  he  sent.  But  throughout  that  endless 
forenoon  the  dentist  kept  to  his  office,  though  twice 
there  were  intervals  when  she  knew  him  to  be  alone. 
Her  lunch  hour  —  and  his  —  came  at  last.  She 
lingered,  but  still  Paul  delayed.  At  last,  driven  by 


180  THE   CRUCIBLE 

an  imperative  craving  to  be  done  with  it,  she  hurried 
to  his  room  and  found  it  empty.  Grimes  told  her 
that  he  had  seen  Paul  leave  the  place  by  a  side  door. 
The  news  was  a  dagger-thrust  in  her  pride.  Of  a 
surety,  now,  he  must  seek  her. 

Between  five  o'clock  and  six,  a  dull  hour,  he  came, 
woebegone  and  conciliatory. 

"For  God's  sake,  clear  this  up,"  he  begged. 
"Haven't  you  anything  to  say  ?" 

"A  great  deal,  Paul.  But  first  tell  me  what  that 
woman  said  about  me." 

"You  heard." 

"But  what  else?" 

"Nothing." 

"Nothing!"     The  thing  was  incredible. 

"Only  that  you'd  probably  be  glad  to  explain 
things  yourself." 

At  that  half  her  burden  fell.  Stella's  cunning  had 
overreached  itself.  She  had  thought  to  rack  her  vic- 
tim most  by  forcing  her  to  betray  herself,  but  she  had 
reasoned  from  the  false  premise  that  Jean  had  a 
truly  shameful  past  to  conceal. 

"Glad,"  she  repeated.  "Yes,  I  am  glad.  I  should 
have  told  you  some  day,  Paul.  It's  a  long  story." 

The  door  opened  to  admit  a  caller  with  a  swollen 
jowl. 

"To-night,  then  ?"   said  the  dentist,  hurriedly. 

"Yes,"  she  assented.     "I  will  tell  you  to-night." 

"At  the  flat?" 

"Yes;    at  the  flat." 


THE   CRUCIBLE  181 

Spurred  on  by  her  unrest,  she  reached  the  Lorna 
Doone  before  Paul  had  returned  from  his  evening 
meal,  and  found  the  flat  in  darkness.  She  was  re- 
lieved that  this  was  so.  It  would  give  her  a  quiet 
interval  in  which  to  turn  over  what  she  meant  to  say. 
She  entered  the  little  parlor  and  seated  herself  in  an 
open  window  where  a  shy  midsummer-night's  breeze, 
astray  from  river  or  sound,  stole  gently  in  and  out 
and  fingered  her  hair.  It  was  wonderfully  peaceful 
for  a  city.  The  sounds  from  below  —  the  footsteps 
on  the  pavement,  the  cries  of  children  at  play  under 
the  young  elms  lining  the  avenue,  the  jests  of  the 
cigar-store  loungers,  the  chatter  of  the  girls  thronging 
the  soda-fountain  at  the  corner  druggist's,  the  jingle 
of  bicycle  bells,  the  beat  of  hoofs,  the  honk  of  occa- 
sional automobiles,  even  the  strains  of  a  hurdy- 
gurdy  out-Heroding  Sousa  —  one  and  all  ascended, 
mellowed  by  distance  to  something  not  unmusical 
and  cheerily  human.  She  realized,  as  she  listened, 
that  the  city,  not  the  country,  this  city,  this  very 
corner,  this  hearth  which  she  and  Paul  had  pre- 
pared, was  at  last  and  truly  home. 

Presently  she  heard  Paul's  latch-key  in  the  lock 
and  his  step  in  the  dark  corridor. 

"You  here?"  he  called  tonelessly.  "Better  have 
a  light,  hadn't  we  ?" 

"  It  is  cooler  without,"  she  answered.  Even  though 
her  explanations  need  not  fear  the  light,  she  thought 
obscurity  might  ease  their  telling. 

With  no  other  greeting,  the  dentist  passed  to  the 


i82         .  THE   CRUCIBLE 

window  opposite  hers,  slouched  wearily  into  a  chair, 
and  waited  in  silence  for  her  to  begin. 

Jean  told  her  story  in  its  fullness :  her  tomboy  girl- 
hood, the  hateful  family  jars,  the  last  quarrel  with 
Amelia,  her  sentence  to  the  refuge,  her  escape,  return, 
riot-madness,  and  release,  and  the  inner  significance 
of  her  late  struggle  for  a  living  against  too  heavy  odds. 
She  told  it  so  honestly,  so  plainly,  that  she  thought 
no  sane  being  could  misunderstand;  yet,  vaguely 
at  first,  with  fatal  clearness  as,  ending,  she  strained 
her  eyes  toward  the  dour  shadowy  figure  opposite, 
she  perceived  that  she  had  to  deal  with  doubt. 

"Do  you  think  I  am  holding  something  back?" 
she  faltered,  after  a  long  silence.  "Must  I  swear 
that  I've  told  you  the  whole  truth  ?" 

The  man  stirred  in  his  place  at  last. 

"I  guess  an  affidavit  won't  be  necessary,"  he  re- 
turned grimly. 

She  endured  another  silence  impatiently,  then  rose 
proudly  to  her  feet. 

"I'll  say  it  for  you,"  she  flashed.  "This  frees 
you  of  any  promises  to  me,  Paul.  You  are  as  free  as 
if  you  had  never  made  them.  Go  your  own  way : 
I'll  go  mine.  It  —  it  can't  be  harder  than  the  one 
I've  come.  Good-by." 

He  roused  himself  as  she  made  to  leave. 

"Hold  on,  Jean,"  he  said,  coming  closer.  "I 
guess  we  can  compromise  this  thing  somehow." 

"Compromise!     I  have  nothing  to  compromise." 

"  Haven't  you  ? "     He  laughed  harshly.     "  I  should 


THE   CRUCIBLE  183 

say  —  but  let  that  pass.  Of  course,  after  what's 
turned  up,  you  can't  expect  a  fellow  to  be  so  keen  to 
marry  - 

"  I've  told  you  that  you  are  free,"  she  interrupted. 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  be  free  —  altogether.  We 
could  be  pretty  snug  here,  Jean.  The  parson's 
rigmarole  doesn't  cut  much  ice  with  me,  and  I  don't 
see  that  it  need  with  you.  They  think  downstairs 
we're  married.  That  part's  dead  easy.  As  for 
Grimes  and  the  rest  — " 

She  had  no  impulse  to  strike  him  as  she  had  the 
floor-walker.  Waiting  in  his  folly  for  an  answer,  the 
man  heard  only  her  stumbling  flight  along  the  corri- 
dor and  the  jar  of  a  closing  door. 


XVIII 

YET,  an  hour  later,  Paul  came  seeking  her  at  Mrs. 
St.  Aubyn's,  and,  failing,  returned  in  the  morning 
before  she  breakfasted.  Unsuccessful  a  second 
time,  and  then  a  third,  he  wrote  twice,  imploring  her 
not  to  judge  him  by  a  moment's  madness. 

Jean  made  no  reply.  Moved  by  the  eloquent 
memory' of  Paul's  many  kindnesses  and  with  the 
charity  she  hoped  of  others  for  herself,  she  did  him  the 
justice  to  believe  him  better  than  his  lowest  impulse. 
But  while  she  was  willing  to  grant  that  the  Paul  who, 
in  the  first  shock  of  her  revelation,  thought  all  the 
world  rotten,  was  not  the  real  Paul,  she  would  not 
have  been  the  woman  she  was,  had  his  offense  failed 
to  bar  him  from  her  life.  Her  decision  was  instinc- 
tive and  instant,  requiring  no  travail  of  spirit,  though 
she  could  not  escape  subsequent  heart-searchings 
whether  she  had  unwittingly  laid  herself  open  to 
humiliation  and  a  scorching  shame  that  the  dentist, 
or  any  man,  could  even  for  a  moment  have  held  her 
so  cheap. 

Necessity  turned  her  thoughts  outward.  The  mar- 
riage plans  had  all  but  devoured  her  savings,  and 
while  she  was  clothed  better  than  ever  before,  she 
lacked  ready  money  for  even  a  fortnight's  board. 

184 


THE   CRUCIBLE  185 

Immediate  employment  was  essential,  yet,  when  can- 
vassed, the  things  to  which  she  might  turn  her  hand 
were  alarmingly  few.  After  her  experience  with 
Meyer  &  Schwarzschild,  she  was  loath  to  go  back  to 
her  refuge-taught  trade  except  as  a  last  resort,  while 
department-store  life,  as  she  had  found  it,  seemed 
scarcely  less  repellent.  At  the  outset  it  was  her  hope 
to  secure  somewhere  a  position  like  her  last,  but  the 
advertisements  yielded  the  name  of  only  one  dentist 
in  need  of  an  assistant,  and  this  man  had  filled  his 
vacancy  before  she  applied.  Thereafter  she  roamed 
the  high  seas  of  "Help  Wanted:  Female"  without 
chart  or  compass. 

The  newspapers  teemed  with  offers  of  work  for 
women's  hands.  The  caption  "Domestic  Service" 
of  course  removed  a  host  of  them  from  consideration, 
and  the  demand  for  stenographers,  manicures,  and 
like  specialized  wage-earners  disposed  of  many  others ; 
but,  these  aside,  opportunity  still  seemed  to  beckon 
from  infinite  directions.  Thus,  the  paper-box  in- 
dustry clamored  for  girls  to  seam,  strip,  glue,  turn 
in,  top-label,  close,  and  tie;  the  milliners  wanted 
trimmers,  improvers,  frame-makers,  and  workers  in 
plumage  and  artificial  flowers;  the  manufacturers 
of  shirt-waists  and  infants'  wear  called  for  feminine 
fingers  to  hemstitch,  shirr,  tuck,  and  press;  deft 
needles  might  turn  their  skill  toward  every  conceiv- 
able object  from  theatrical  spangles  to  gas-mantles; 
nimble  hands  might  dip  chocolates,  stamp  decorated 
tin,  gold-lay  books,  sort  corks,  tip  silk  umbrellas, 


1 86  THE   CRUCIBLE 

curl  ostrich  feathers,  fold  circulars,  and  pack  every- 
thing from  Bibles  to  Turkish  cigarettes. 

But  this  prodigious  demand,  at  first  sight  so  promis- 
ing, proved  on  close  inspection  to  be  limited.  Be- 
ginners were  either  not  wanted  at  all  or,  if  taken  on 
trial,  were  expected  to  subsist  on  charity  or  air. 
Experience  was  the  great  requisite.  Day  after  day 
Jean  toiled  up  murky  staircases  to  confront  this  stum- 
bling-block; day  after  day  her  resources  dwindled. 

Amy  was  keenly  sympathetic  and  pored  over  the 
eye-straining  advertisement  columns  as  persistently 
as  Jean  herself. 

"How's  this?"  she  inquired,  glancing  up  hope- 
fully from  one  of  these  quests.  ' '  Wanted :  Girl  or 
woman  to  interest  herself  in  caring  for  the  feeble- 
minded.'" 

"I  tried  that  yesterday." 

"No  good?" 

"They  only  offered  a  home." 

"  And  with  idiots  !     They  must  be  dotty  themselves." 

Then  Jean,  ranging  another  column,  thought  that 
she  detected  a  glimmer  of  hope. 

"Listen,"  she  said.  "'Wanted:  Girl  to  pose  for 
society  illustrations.'  Do  you  think  there  is  any- 
thing in  this  ?" 

"  Too  much,"  returned  Amy,  sententiously .  "  Don't 
answer  model  ads.  It  isn't  models  those  fellows  want 
any  more  than  they  are  artists.  Real  artists  don't 
need  to  advertise.  They  can  get  all  the  models  they 
want  without  it.  I  never  thought  to  mention  posing. 


THE   CRUCIBLE  187 

Why  don't  you  try  it  ?  You  have  got  the  looks,  and 
it's  perfectly  respectable." 

"Is  it?"  rejoined  Jean,  dubiously.  "I  thought 
this  advertisement  sounded  all  right  because  it  says 
'society  illustrations." 

"It's  just  as  proper  to  pose  nude,  if  that's  what 
you're  thinking  about.  I  know  the  nicest  kind  of  a 
girl  who  does.  Her  mother  is  paralyzed.  But 
that's  only  one  branch  of  the  business,  and  it's  all 
respectable.  Why,  you'll  find  art  students  themselves 
doing  it  to  help  along  with  their  expenses.  I  know 
what  I'm  talking  about,  because  I've  posed." 

"You!" 

"Just  a  little.  It  was  for  an  artist  who  boarded 
here  a  while  before  you  came.  He  moved  uptown 
when  he  began  to  get  on,  and  now  you  see  his  pictures 
in  all  the  magazines.  I  was  a  senator's  daughter 
in  one  set  of  drawings  and  a  golf-girl  in  a  poster. 
It's  easy  work  as  soon  as  your  muscles  get  broken  in, 
and  it  stands  you  in  fifty  cents  an  hour  at  least. 
The  girl  I  told  you  of  sometimes  makes  twenty-five 
or  thirty  dollars  a  week,  but  she  poses  for  life  classes ; 
they're  in  the  schools,  you  know.  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  go  into  it  once." 

"Why  didn't  you?" 

Amy  laid  a  derisive  finger  on  her  tip-tilted  nose. 

"Here's  why/'  she  laughed.  "It  was  this  way: 
The  artist  who  used  to  board  here  told  me  of  another 
man  who  paid  three  or  four  models  regular  salaries. 
He  did  pictures  about  Greeks  and  Romans,  and  all 


1 88  THE   CRUCIBLE 

those  girls  had  to  do,  I  heard,  was  to  loaf  round  in 
pretty  clothes,  and  once  in  awhile  be  painted.  I  went 
up  there  one  day  and  it  certainly  was  a  lovely  place, 
just  like  a  house  in  a  novel  I'd  read  called  'The  Last 
Days  of  Pompey-eye.'  A  girl  was  posing  when  I 
came,  and,  if  you'll  believe  me,  that  man  had  rigged 
up  a  wind-machine  that  blew  her  clothes  about  just 
as  though  she  was  running  a  race.  Well,  I  didn't 
stay  long.  The  artist  —  he  was  seventy-five  or 
eighty,  I  should  say,  and  grumpy  —  turned  me  side- 
ways, took  one  look  at  my  nose,  and  said  I  was  too 
old,  nineteen  hundred  years  too  old  !  He  thought  he 
was  funny.  Somebody  told  me  afterward  that  he 
was  a  has-been  and  couldn't  sell  his  pictures  any 
more." 

With  the  idea  that  posing  might  answer  as  a  stop- 
gap until  she  found  some  other  means  of  support, 
Jean  forthwith  visited  an  agency  whose  address  Amy 
furnished.  She  found  the  proprietor  of  this  enterprise 
a  jerky  little  man  with  a  disquieting  pair  of  black  eyes 
which  thoroughly  inventoried  her  every  feature, 
movement,  and  detail  of  dress. 

"Chorus,  front  row,  show-girl,  or  church  choir?" 
he  demanded  briskly. 

"  I  thought  this  was  a  model  agency,"  Jean  said ; 
"I  wish  to  try  posing  if — " 

"Right  shop.     What  line,  please?" 

"In  costume." 

"You  don't  follow  me.  Fashion-plate,  illustrat- 
ing, lithography,  or  commercial  photography. " 


THE   CRUCIBLE  189 

"I'm  not  sure,"  she  hesitated,  bewildered  by  this 
unexpected  broadening  of  the  field.  "What  can  I 
earn?" 

The  little  man  waved  his  arms  spasmodically. 

"Might  as  well  ask  me  what  the  weather'll  be  next 

O 

Fourth  of  July,"  he  sputtered.  "See  that  horse 
there?"  pointing  out  of  his  window  at  a  much- 
blanketed  thoroughbred  on  its  way  to  the  smith's. 
"  How  fast  can  he  trot  ?  You  don't  know  !  Of  course 
you  don't.  How  much  can  you  earn  ?  I  don't 
know.  Of  course  I  don't.  You  see  my  point  ? 
Same  case  exactly.  Illustrators  pay  all  the  way 
from  half  a  dollar  to  a  dollar  and  a  half  an  hour. 
Camera-models  make  from  one  dollar  to  three.  And 
there  you  are." 

"I've  had  no  experience." 

"  That's  plain  enough.  Sticks  out  like  a  sore  thumb. 
But  you  don't  need  any.  Fact,  you  don't.  That's 
the  beauty  of  the  business.  Appearance  and  gump- 
tion, they're  the  cards  to  hold.  You've  got  appear- 
ance. A  girl  has  to  have  the  looks,  or  I  don't  touch 
her  fee.  Fair  all  round,  you  see.  If  a  girl's  face  or 
get-up  is  against  her,  I've  no  business  taking  her 
money.  If  an  illustrator  says,  'Send  me  up  a  model 
who  looks  so  and  so/  that's  just  the  article  he  gets. 
First-class  models,  first-class  illustrators,  there's 
my  system.''" 

"I  need  work  at  once,"  Jean  stated.  "What  is 
my  chance?" 

"  Prime.     You  ought  to  fill  the  bill  for  a  man  who 


igo  THE   CRUCIBLE 

'phoned  not  two  minutes  before  you  walked  through 
the  door.  High-class  artist,  known  everywhere, 
liberal  pay.  There  needn't  have  been  any  delay 
whatever,  if  you'd  thought  to  bring  your  father  or 
mother  along." 

Jean's  rising  spirits  dropped  dismally  at  this  re- 
mark. 

"My  father  is  dead,"  she  explained.  "My 
mother  lives  in  the  country." 

"Then  get  her  consent  in  writing.  Means  time,  of 
course,  and  time's  money,  but  it  can't  be  helped." 

"Is  it  absolutely  necessary  ? " 

"You'll  have  to  have  it  to  do  business  with  me," 
replied  the  agent,  beginning  to  shuffle  among  his 
papers. 

"But  my  mother  knows  I  am  trying  to  earn  a 
living,"  she  argued.  "  Besides,  I'm  nearly  of  age. 
I  shall  be  twenty-one  next  week." 

"Drop  in  when  you  get  your  letter,"  directed  the 
little  man,  inflexibly.  "Minor  or  not,  I  make  it  a 
rule  to  have  parents'  consent.  Troubles  enough  in 
my  line  without  papa  and  mamma.  Good  day." 

Outside  the  door  Jean  decided  upon  independent 
action.  This  last  resource  was  at  once  too  attractive 
and  too  near  to  be  relinquished  lightly.  The  idea 
of  obtaining  Mrs.  Fanshaw's  consent  was  prepos- 
terous, even  if  she  could  bring  herself  to  ask  it  —  the 
term  "artist's  model"  conveyed  only  scandalous  sug- 
gestions to  Shawnee  Springs;  but  there  was  noth- 
ing to  prevent  her  hunting  employment  from  studio 


THE  CRUCIBLE  191 

to  studio.  Amy  had  mentioned  the  address  of  the 
illustrator  whom  success  had  translated  from  Mrs. 
St.  Aubyn's  world,  and  to  him  Jean  determined 
to  apply  first. 

Her  errand  brought  her  to  one  of  the  innumerable 

O 

streets  from  which  wealth  and  fashion  are  ever  in 
retreat  before  a  vanguard  of  the  crafts  of  which 
wealth  and  fashion  are  the  legitimate  quarry,  and  to 
a  commercialized  brownstone  dwelling  with  a  mo- 
diste established  in  its  basement,  a  picture-dealer 
tenanting  its  drawing-room,  and  a  mixed  population 
of  artists,  architects,  and  musicians  tucked  away 
elsewhere  between  first  story  and  roof.  She  found 
the  studio  of  Amy's  acquaintance  readily,  and  obey- 
ing a  muffled  call,  which  answered  her  knock,  pushed 
open  the  door  of  an  antechamber  that  had  obviously 
once  done  service  as  a  hall-bedroom.  Here  she 
hesitated.  The  one  door  other  than  that  by  which 
she  entered  led  apparently  into  the  intimacies  of  the 
artist's  domestic  life,  for  the  counterpane  of  a  white 
iron  bed,  distinctly  visible  from  her  station,  outlined 
a  woman's  recumbent  form. 

"In  here,  please,"  called  the  voice.  "I'm  trying 
to  finish  while  the  light  holds." 

On  the  threshold  Jean  had  to  smile  at  her  own  un- 
sophistication.  The  supposed  bedroom  was  a  detail 
of  the  studio  proper,  the  supposed  wife  a  model 
impersonating  a  hospital  patient  who  held  the  centre 
of  interest  in  a  gouache  drawing,  to  which  the  illus- 
trator was  adding  a  few  last  touches  by  way  of  accent. 


i92  THE  CRUCIBLE 

"  I  see  you  don't  need  a  model,"  Jean  said,  with  a 
smile  inclusive  of  the  girl  in  the  bed. 

He  scrutinized  her  impersonally,  transferred  a 
brush  from  mouth  to  hand,  and  caught  up  a  bundle 
of  galley-proofs. 

"No,"  he  decided,  more  to  himself  than  Jean. 
"It's  another  petite  heroine,  drat  her!  But  I'd  be 
glad  to  have  you  leave  your  name  and  address," 
he  added,  indicating  a  paint-smeared  memorandum 
book  which  lay  amidst  the  brushes,  ink-saucers,  and 
color-tubes  littering  a  small  table  at  elbow.  "I 
may  need  your  type  any  day." 

Jean  complied,  thanked  him,  and  turned  to  go. 

"Try  MacGregor,  top  floor  —  Malcolm  Mac- 
Gregor,"  he  suggested.  "Tell  him  I  said  to  have  a 
look  at  your  eyes." 

Much  encouraged,  she  mounted  two  more  flights, 
knocked,  and,  as  before,  let  herself  in  at  an  uncere- 
monious hail.  This  time,  however,  she  passed 
directly  from  hall  to  studio,  coming  at  once  into  an 
atmosphere  startling  in  its  contrast  to  the  life  she  left 
behind.  MacGregor's  Oasis,  one  of  the  illustrator's 
friends  called  it,  and  the  phrase  fitted  happily.  The 
rack  of  wonderfully  chased  small  arms  and  long  Arab 
flintlocks;  the  bright  spot  of  color  made  upon  the 
neutral  background  of  the  wall  by  some  strange 
musical  instrument  or  Tripolitan  fan;  the  curious 
jugs,  gourds,  and  leathern  buckets  of  caravan  house- 
keeping; the  careless  heaps  of  oriental  stuffs  and 
garments  from  which,  among  the  soberer  folds  of  a 


THE  CRUCIBLE  193 

barracan  or  camel's-hair  jellaba,  one  caught  the 
red  gleam  of  a  fez  or  the  yellow  glow  of  a  vest  wrought 
with  intricate  embroideries;  the  tropical  sun-helmet, 
—  MacGregor' s  own,  —  its  green  lining  bleached  by 
the  reflected  light  of  Sahara  sand;  the  antelope 
antlers  above  the  lintel;  the  Soudanese  leopard  skins 
under  foot  —  these  and  their  like,  in  bewildering 
number  and  variety,  recalled  the  charm  and  mystery 
of  the  African  desert  which  this  man  knew,  loved, 
and  painted  superlatively. 

MacGregor  himself,  whom  she  found  at  his  easel, 
was,  despite  his  name,  not  Scotch,  but  American, 
with  seven  generations  of  New  England  ancestors 
behind  him.  Tall,  thin-featured,  alert,  and  appar- 
ently in  his  late  thirties,  he  had  the  quizzical,  shrewdly 
humorous  eye  which  passes  for  and  possibly  does 
express  the  Connecticut  Yankee's  outlook  upon  life. 
In  nothing  did  he  suggest  the  artist. 

"  I'll  be  through  here  in  no  time,  if  you'll  take  a 
chair,"  he  said,  when  Jean  had  repeated  the  other 
artist's  message. 

Her  wait  was  fruitful,  for  it  emphasized  most 
graphically  the  dictum  of  the  agent  that  gumption 
was  fundamental  in  the  successful  model's  equipment. 
The  man  now  posing  for  MacGregor  in  the  character 
of  an  aged  Arab  leading  a  caravan  down  a  rocky 
defile,  was  mounted  upon  nothing  more  spirited 
than  an  ingenious  arrangement  of  packing-cases, 
but  he  bestrode  his  saddle  as  if  he  rode  in  truth  the 
barb  which  the  canvas  depicted.  He  dismounted 


I94  THE   CRUCIBLE 

presently  and  disappeared  in  an  adjacent  alcove 
from  which  he  shortly  issued  a  commonplace  young 
man  in  commonplace  occidental  garb,  [who  pocketed 
his  day's  wage  and  went  whistling  down  the  stairs. 

MacGregor  turned  to  Jean. 

"I  do  want  a  model,"  he  said.  "I  want  one  bad. 
By  rights  I  should  be  painting  over  yonder,"  —  his 
gesture  broadly  signified  Africa,  —  "  but  my  market, 
the  devil  take  it !  is  here.  So  I'm  hunting  a  model. 
I  have  had  plenty  come  who  look  the  part  (which 
you  don't)  even  Arabs  from  a  Wild  West  show;  but 
I've  yet  to  strike  one  who  has  any  more  imagination 
than  a  rabbit.  I  tell  you  this  frankly  because  it's 
easy  to  see  you're  not  the  average  model.  That  is 
why  I  asked  you  to  wait.  The  model  I'm  looking 
for  must  work  under  certain  of  the  Arab  woman's 
restrictions.  Out  there"  —  his  hand  again  swept 
the  Dark  Continent  —  "you  never  see  her  face,  as 
you  probably  know.  You  glimpse  her  eyes,  if 
they're  not  veiled;  you  try  to  read  their  story.  If 
even  the  eyes  are  hidden,  you  find  yourself  attempt- 
ing to  read  the  draperies.  Do  you  grasp  my  diffi- 
culty ?  I  want  some  one  who  can  express  emo- 
tions not  only  with  the  eyes,  but  without  them. 
Now  you,"  he  ended,  with  a  note  of  enthusiasm, 
"you  have  the  eyes.  Don't  tell  me  you  haven't  the 
rest." 

Jean  laughed. 

"I  won't  if  I  can  help  it,"  she  assured  him. 

He  caught  up  a  costume  which  lay  upon  a  low 


THE   CRUCIBLE  195 

divan,  and  ransacked  a  heap  of  unframed  canvases 
that  leaned  backs  outward  against  the  wall. 

"This  sketch  will  give  you  a  notion  how  the  dress 
goes,"  he  said,  and  carried  his  armful  into  the  alcove. 

When  she  reentered  the  studio,  MacGregor  was 
arranging  a  screen  of  a  pattern  Jean  had  never  seen. 

"It  was  made  from  an  old  lattice,"  he  explained, 
placing  a  chair  for  her  behind  it.  "I  picked  it  up 
in  Kairwan.  This  little  door  swings  in  its  original 
position.  You  are  looking  now  from  a  window  — 
a  little  more  than  ajar,  so  —  from  which  generations 
of  women,  dressed  as  you  are  dressed,  have  watched 
an  Arab  street." 

He  passed  round  to  the  front  of  the  screen  and 
studied  her  intently. 

"Eyes  about  there,"  he  said,  indicating  a  rose- 
water  jar  upon  a  low  shelf.  "Expression,"  he 
paused  thoughtfully.  "How  shall  I  tell  you  what  I 
want  you  to  suggest  from  the  lattice  ?  Don't  think 
of  those  women  of  the  Orient.  You  can't  truly  con- 
ceive their  life.  Think  of  something  nearer  home. 
Imagine  yourself  in  a  convent  —  no,  that  won't  do 
at  all.  Imagine  yourself  a  prisoner,  an  innocent 
prisoner,  peering  through  your  grating  at  the  world, 
longing  — 

"Wait,"  said  Jean. 

She  threw  herself  into  his  conception,  closed  her 
mental  vision  upon  the  studio  and  its  trophies, 
erased  the  bustling  city  from  her  thoughts.  She 
was  again  a  resentful  inmate  of  Cottage  No.  6,  lying 


196  THE   CRUCIBLE 

in  her  cell-like  room  at  twilight,  while  the  woods  called 
to  her  with  a  hundred  tongues.  There  were  flowers 
in  the  sheltered  places;  arbutus,  violets  — 

"You've  got  it!"  MacGregor's  exultant  voice 
brought  her  back.  "You've  got  it!  We'll  go  to 
work  to-morrow  at  nine." 

"No  admission,  Mac?"  asked  a  man's  voice  from 
the  doorway.  "I  gave  the  regulation  knock,  but 
you  seemed  — '  He  stopped  and  gazed  hard  into 
the  eyes  which  met  his  with  answering  wonder  from 
the  lattice. 

"I've  found  her,  Atwood,"  MacGregor  hailed 
him  jubilantly.  "I've  found  her  at  last." 

The  newcomer  took  an  uncertain  step  forward, 
halted  again,  then  strode  suddenly  toward  the  screen. 

"I  think  I  have,  too,"  he  said,  at  the  little  window 
now.  "It's  Jack,  isn't  it?" 


Her  knight  of   the  forest  stood  before  her. 


XIX 

AND  Jean  ? 

It  was  as  if  she  still  dwelt  in  fancy  in  that  unfor- 
gettable past.  She  had  burst  her  bars ;  she  had  come, 
a  fugitive,  to  the  birch-edged  shore  of  a  lonely  lake; 
her  knight  of  the  forest  stood  before  her. 

The  astonished  MacGregor,  having  waited  a  decent 
interval  for  some  rational  clew  to  the  situation,  re- 
called his  own  existence  by  the  simple  expedient  of 
folding  the  screen. 

"Step  inside,  won't  you?"  he  invited  with  a  dry 
grin.  "You  may  take  cold  at  the  window." 

Atwood  turned  an    illumined  face. 

"It's  been  years  since  we  met,"  he  explained. 
"I  was  not  sure  at  first  —  the  costume,  the  place." 

MacGregor's  eye  lingered  upon  him  in  humorous 
meditation. 

"  Perhaps  you'll  see  your  way  in  time  to  introduce 
me,"  he  suggested.  "This  has  been  a  business 
session,  so  far.  We  hadn't  come  to  names." 

The  younger  man  floundered,  glowing  healthily, 
but  Jean  retained  her  wits. 

"Miss  Fanshaw,"  she  supplied  promptly.  "I 
should  have  mentioned  it  before." 

She  vanished  into  the  alcove,  questioned  her 
unfamiliar  image  in  the  little  mirror,  and  began  to 

197 


198  THE   CRUCIBLE 

resume  her  street-dress  with  fingers  not  under  perfect 
control.  There  came  an  indistinct  murmur  of  talk 
from  the  studio  in  which  MacGregor' s  incisive  tones 
predominated.  His  companion's  responses  were 
few  and  low.  When  she  reentered,  Atwood  stood 
waiting  by  the  outer  door. 

"At  nine,  then,"  reminded  MacGregor.  "So- 
long,  Craig,  if  you  must  go." 

"So-long,"  answered  the  other,  absently. 

On  the  stair  they  faced  each  other  with  the  wonder 
of  their  meeting  still  upon  them. 

"You  are  not  a  professional  model,"  he  said;  "I 
should  have  come  across  you  before,  if  you  were." 

"You  have  seen  me  get  my  first  engagement." 

"And  with  MacGregor !    Was  it  chance  ?" 

"Just  chance." 

"Jove!"  he  ejaculated.  "It  might  have  been 
myself.  Yet  it's  strange  enough  as  it  is.  Mac- 
Gregor in  there  was  the  chap  I  was  to  camp  with, 
you  remember?  The  man  whose  grandmother — " 

"Great-grandmother,  wasn't  it?"    she  smiled. 

"You  do  remember!" 

A  silence  fell  upon  them  for  a  little  moment  and 
they  assayed  each  other  shyly,  he  keenly  aware  of  the 
fuller  curves  which  had  made  a  woman  of  her,  she 
searching  rather  for  reminders  of  the  youth  whose 
image  had  gone  back  with  her  through  the  gate- 
house into  bondage.  He  was  more  grave,  as  became 
a  man  now  looking  back  upon  his  golden  twenties, 
with  thoughtful  lines  about  the  eyes,  and  a  clearer 


THE  CRUCIBLE  199 

demarcation  of  the  jaw,  which  was,  as  of  old,  shaven, 
and  pale  with  the  pallor  of  a  dweller  in  cities.  The 
mouth  was  the  mouth  of  the  youth,  sensitive,  un- 
spoiled; and  the  direct  eyes  had  lost  nothing  of  their 
friendliness,  though  she  divined  that  he  weighed  her, 
questioning  what  manner  of  woman  she  had  become. 

"You  went  back,"  he  broke  the  pause,  "you  went 
back  to  that  inferno  because  of  what  I  said.  You 
saw  it  through.  Plucky  Jack!" 

"Jean,"  she  corrected. 

"Why?" 

"Jack  was  another  girl,  a  girl  I  hope  I've  out- 
grown." 

"Don't  say  that,"  he  protested.  "I  knew  her. 
But  this  Jean  of  the  staircase  — ' 

"Well?"  she  challenged,  avid  for  his  mature 
opinion. 

"Makes  me  wonder,"  he  completed,  "whether  I've 
not  been  outgrown,  too." 

It  was  not  a  satisfying  answer.  She  remembered 
that  growth  may  be  other  than  benign. 

"You!"   she  said. 

"Why  not?  I  was  young,  preposterously  young. 
Had  I  been  older,  I  should  never  have  dared  meddle 
with  your  life." 

"Meddle  !  "  she  repeated,  his  self-reproach  rang  so 
true;  "you  gave  me  the  wisest  advice  such  a  girl 
could  receive.  That  girl  could  not  appreciate  how 
wise  it  was,  but  this  one  does  and  thanks  you  from 
the  bottom  of  her  heart." 


200  THE   CRUCIBLE 

Atwood  drew  a  long  breath. 

"You  can  say  that!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  knew 
what  it  meant  to  return;  I  did  not.  Since  I  have 
realized  the  truth,  the  thought  of  my  folly  has 
given  me  no  peace.  I  imagined  —  God  knows 
what  I  haven't  imagined !  To  see  you  here,  as  you 
are;  to  have  you  thank  me,  when  I  thought  I  de- 
served your  undying  hate,  is  like  a  reprieve." 

Jean's  face  went  radiant.  "Yet  you  say  you 
knew  her ! " 

Their  eyes  met  an  instant;  then  they  laughed 
together  happily. 

"You're  right,"  he  acknowledged.  "It  seems  I 
don't  know  either  of  you.  But  we  can't  talk  here, 
can  we  ?  We  need  —  He  paused,  then,  "  Give 
me  this  day,"  he  entreated.  "We're  not  strangers. 
Say  you  will !" 

As  they  issued  upon  the  pavement,  the  driver  of  a 
passing  cab  raised  an  interrogative  whip.  Atwood 
nodded,  and  a  moment  afterward  they  had  edged  into 
the  traffic  of  one  of  the  avenues  and  were  rolling  north- 
ward. To  Jean,  reveling  silently  in  her  first  hansom, 
it  seemed  that  they  had  scarcely  started  before  they 
turned  in  at  one  of  the  entrances  of  Central  Park, 
and  for  a  time  followed  perforce  the  flashing  afternoon 
parade  before  striking  into  a  less  frequented  roadway, 
where  they  dismounted.  Atwood,  too,  had  said  noth- 
ing amidst  the  jingling  ostentation  of  the  avenue  and 
main-traveled  drives,  and  he  was  silent  now  as  they 
forsook  the  asphalt  walks  for  quiet  paths,  where  their 


THE   CRUCIBLE  201 

feet  trod  the  good  earth,  and  the  odor  of  leaf  mold 
rose  pungently. 

Presently  he  halted. 

"Will  you  shut  your  eyes  for  a  little  way?"  he 
asked.  "It's  my  whim." 

She  assented,  and  they  went  forward  slowly,  her 
hand  upon  his  sleeve.  She  felt  the  path  drop,  by 
gentle  slopes  at  first,  then  with  sharp  turns  past  jut- 
ting rocks,  where  there  seemed  no  path  at  all.  Her 
sense  of  direction  failed  her,  and  with  it  went  her  recol- 
lection of  the  city's  nearness.  The  immediate  sounds 
were  all  sylvan.  She  heard  the  call  of  a  cat-bird,  the 
bark  of  a  squirrel,  the  laughing  whimper  of  a  brook 
among  stones,  which  she  guessed,  if  her  ear  had  not 
lost  its  woodcraft,  merged  its  peevish  identity  in 
some  neighboring  lake  or  pool. 

"Now,"  said  her  guide,  pausing. 

She  looked,  started,  and  rounded  swiftly  upon  At- 
wood  to  find  him  beaming  at  her  instant  comprehen- 
sion. 

"It  might  be  the  very  same  !"   she  exclaimed. 

"Mightn't  it?     The  birches,  the  shore-line — " 

"And  the  stream,  even  the  little  stream  !  Could  I 
find  watercress  there,  I  wonder  ?" 

The  man  laughed. 

"Ah,  it  is  real  to  you !  I,  too,  forgot  New  York 
when  I  first  stumbled  on  it.  I  even  looked  for  water- 
cress. But  it  knows  no  such  purity,  poor  little  brook  ! 
I've  had  to  pretend  with  it,  as  I've  pretended  with 
the  lake.  The  landscape-gardener  was  a  clever  fel- 


202  THE   CRUCIBLE 

low.  He  makes  you  believe  there  are  distances  out 
there  —  winding  channels,  unplumbed  depths;  he 
cheats  you  into  thinking  you  have  a  forest  at  your 
back.  Sometimes  he  has  almost  persuaded  me  to 
cast  a  clumsy  line  into  that  thicket  yonder." 

Jean's  look  returned  to  him  quickly.  He  was 
smiling,  but  with  an  undercurrent  of  gravity. 

"You  know  it  well,"  she  said. 

"I  ought.  It  was  here,  the  summer  after  we  met, 
that  I  came  to  realize  something  of  what  I  had  asked 
you  to  do.  I  began  to  study  refuges.  I  went  to 
such  as  I  could,  boys'  places,  mainly;  I  even  tried 
to  get  sight  or  word  of  you.  Somehow,  though,  I 
never  came  at  the  right  official,  and  it  seemed  that 
men  weren't  welcome.  I  learned  a  few  things,  how- 
ever. I  grubbed  among  reports;  I  found  out 
what  your  daily  life  was  like,  what  your  compan- 
ions must  be,  and  once  I  saw  a  newspaper  ac- 
count of  a  riot.  But  of  you  I  heard  nothing.  How 
could  I  ?  I  did  not  even  know  your  name  —  I, 
your  judge !" 

The  girl  moved  toward  the  border  of  the  lake  and 
for  a  space  stood  looking  dreamily  into  its  tranquil 
counterfeit  of  changing  foliage  and  September  sky. 
To  the  miracle  of  their  meeting  was  added  the  reve- 
lation that  even  as  he  had  rilled  her  thoughts  in  the 
dark  days,  so  had  she  possessed  his. 

"Will  you  sit  here?"  he  asked,  again  beside  her. 
"I  want  to  hear  the  whole  story  —  the  story  which 
began  back  among  the  other  birches." 


THE   CRUCIBLE  203 

"It  began  farther  back  than  there." 

"Not  for  me." 

"  But  it  should.  If  you  thought  about  me  at  all, 
you  must  have  wondered  how  I  came  to  be  in  a  refuge 
uniform." 

"I  wondered,  yes;  but  I  never  really  cared.  I 
could  see  with  my  own  eyes  what  you  were." 

She  searched  his  face  with  the  skepticism  which  the 
world  had  taught,  then,  with  a  swift  intake  of  breath, 
looked  believing  away. 

"We  must  begin  at  the  beginning,"  she  said. 

She  told  him  her  story  as  she  had  told  it  to  the  den- 
tist that  hideous  night  of  explanations  at  the  Lorna 
Doone,  but  where  Paul's  black  silence  had  stifled  her, 
lamed  her  speech,  made  her  almost  doubt  herself, 
this  listener's  faith  leaped  before  her  words,  bridged 
the  difficult  places  where  she  faltered,  spread  the 
cloak  of  chivalry  in  the  miry  way.  Yet,  with  all 
his  sympathy,  it  hurt  her,  so  senseless  always  seemed 
the  reckoning  for  her  follies,  so  poignant  were  her 
regrets,  and  once,  when  she  began  to  speak  of  Stella 
and  the  riot,  he  stopped  her. 

"Don't  go  on,"  he  begged.  "I  see  what  it  costs 
you." 

"I'd  rather  you  heard  it  all,"  she  replied.  "It's 
your  due." 

Nevertheless,  she  did  not  tell  him  all.  She  could 
speak  of  Stella,  of  Amy,  of  young  Meyer,  of  the  floor- 
walker, but  no  word  of  Paul  passed  her  lips.  She  let 
Atwood  infer  that  the  stigma  of  the  refuge  had  driven 


204  THE   CRUCIBLE 

her  from  Grimes's  employ,  as  it  had  thrust  her  from 
the  department  store.  The  whole  chain  of  circum- 
stances which  the  dentist's  name  connoted  had  be- 
come suddenly  as  inexplicable  to  herself  as  to  this 
transcendent  hero  of  a  perfect  day. 

The  sun  was  low  when  she  made  an  end,  and  the 
long-drawn  shadows  of  the  birches  in  the  lake  turned 
their  thoughts  again  to  that  other  sundown. 

"You  were  a  lonely  little  figure  as  I  looked  back," 
he  said.  "I  took  that  picture  with  me  through  the 
hills,  and  it  remained  my  sharpest  memory.  It  was 
a  sad  memory,  a  mute  reproach,  like  the  poor  things 
I  bought  for  you  to  wear/' 

"Then  you  did  get  them!"  she  cried,  her  dress 
instinct  astir.  "What  were  they  like?" 

"I  will  show  them  to  you  some  day." 

"You've  kept  them?     I  must  pay  my  debt." 

He  shook  his  head.  "They're  not  for  sale.  You 
shall  see  them  when  you  come  to  my  studio." 

"You  are  an  artist,  too?" 

"I  paint,"  he  replied  simply.  "When  you  are  not 
busy  with  MacGregor,  you  will  find  work  with  me. 
We'll  arrange  that  among  us.  Old  Mac  little  dreams 
our  secret." 

"It  is  a  secret?" 

"With  me,  at  any  rate.  I've  never  told.  You 
see"  —  he  looked  away  with  a  sudden  diffidence 
almost  boyish ;  then  back  again  with  a  temerity  that 
was  boyish,  too  —  "you  see,  I  was  jealous  of  my 
memories.  I  wanted  to  keep  them  wholly  to  myself. 


THE   CRUCIBLE  205 

Our  meeting  was  —  how  shall  I  say  it  ?  —  a  kind  of 
idyl.  And  you  —  have  you  told  ?" 

"Never." 

"Was  it  partly  for  my  reason  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered;  "partly  for  your  reason." 

"But  those  clothes,"  he  said,  after  a  moment, 
"you'll  smile  when  you  see  them.  I've  tried  many  a 
time  to  imagine  you  wearing  them,  braving  the  world 
as  you  planned  so  stoutly.  Perhaps  it  would  have 
been  no  harder  than  the  other  way.  Perhaps  — 
but  that's  over  with,  thank  heaven  !  You've  earned 
your  freedom  and  have  a  brighter  lot  than  a  fugitive's 
to  face.  I  don't  mean  a  model's  life.  That  will  be 
temporary.  There's  something  in  you,  something 
fine  that  only  needs  its  chance.  I  can't  tell  you  how 
I  know  this  any  more  than  I  can  tell  you  what  it  is, 
but  I  believe  in  it  as  I  believe  in  my  own  existence. 
I  know  it's  true,  as  true  as  the  fact  that  we  stand  here 
face  to  face." 

By  some  necromancy  of  the  mind  he  mirrored  back 
her  own  vague  hopes. 

"  But  I  am  a  woman,"  she  said,  eager  for  more. 

"So  much  the  better.  You  live  in  woman's  day. 
But  don't  forget  that  you  have  given  me  a  part  of  it," 
he  added,  as  she  rose.  "My  own  particular  solar 
day  isn't  ended  yet.  When  we  first  met,  you  had  me 
to  luncheon,  or  was  it  breakfast  ?  I'm  going  to  re- 
turn the  courtesy." 

"But—" 

"You  couldn't  be  more  appropriately  dressed  for 


206  THE   CRUCIBLE 

a  park  restaurant,"  he  cut  in,  pursuing  her  glance. 
"They'll  serve  us  under  an  arbor  where  the  wistaria 
blooms  in  May.  We'll  have  to  pretend  about  the 
wistaria,  but  it  ought  to  be  easy.  The  great  pretense 
has  come  true." 


XX 

SHE  learned  from  MacGregor  what  Atwood's 
modest  "I  paint"  signified. 

"He  is  an  illustrator  who  illustrates,"  he  told  her 
their  first  day,  while  they  worked.  "  I  mean  — 
left  arm  a  trifle  higher,  please;  you've  shifted  the 
pose  —  I  mean  he  gets  into  the  skin  of  a  writer's 
characters,  when  they  have  any.  If  they're  mere 
abstractions,  he  creates  blood,  bones,  and  epidermis 
for  them  outright.  Rarer  thing  than  you  imagine, 
I  dare  say,  in  spite  of  the  newspaper  jokes.  You  can 
count  the  men  on  one  hand  who  do  it  here  in  New 
York,  and  to  my  mind  Craig  deserves  the  index  fin- 
ger. He'd  find  a  soul  for  a  rag  doll.  But  I'm  only 
telling  you  what  any  top-notch  magazine  you  pick  up 
says  more  forcibly." 

Jean  cloaked  her  ignorance  in  silence  and  put  her 
trust  in  MacGregor's  enthusiasm  for  further  light. 
After  an  industrious  interval  it  came. 

"  But  that  isn't  all,"  he  added,  tilting  back  to  study 
his  canvas  through  half-shut  eyes.  "The  public 
doesn't  know  Atwood's  true  metier.  He's  bigger 
than  they  think.  I'll  show  you  something  in  a 
minute.  It's  time  for  rest." 

He  lingered  for  a  brush  stroke,  which  at  one  sweep 

207 


ao8  THE   CRUCIBLE 

filled  a  languid  fold  of  drapery  with  action,  and  then 
crossed  the  studio  to  the  stack  of  unfinished  work 
beside  the  wall. 

"Wait,"  he  warned,  placing  a  canvas  in  the  trial 
frame  and  wheeling  an  easel  tentatively.  "It's 
in  the  rough,  but  we  can  give  it  light  and  a  setting. 
Now  look.  That's  what  I  call  portraiture." 

Even  her  unschooled  eye  perceived  its  strength. 
It  was  MacGregor  who  looked  out  at  her,  MacGregor 
as  she  herself  had  twice  seen  him  that  day  with  his 
working  fit  upon  him,  New  York  forgotten,  Africa 
filling  every  thought. 

"And  Mr.  Atwood  did  it?" 

"Nobody  else.  He  sat  over  there  in  that  corner, 
while  I  worked  in  mine,  and  painted  what  he  saw." 

"It's  a  wonderful  likeness." 

"  Likeness ! "  MacGregor  shook  the  poor  word 
contemptuously.  "Likeness!  Child,  it's  divina- 
tion!" 

He  dismissed  her  early  in  the  afternoon,  for  it 
was  raining  fitfully  and  the  light  was  uncertain,  and 
on  leaving  she  turned  her  steps  toward  the  Astor 
Library,  intent  on  a  purpose  inspired  by  Mac- 
Gregor's  talk.  She  had  some  acquaintance  with  the 
lending  libraries,  but  none  with  this  sedate  edifice 
whose  size  and  gloom  oppressed  her  as  she  looked 
vainly  about  for  her  elderly  fellow-boarder  who  spent 
his  life  somewhere  amidst  its  dinginess.  In  this 
quandary,  she  was  spied  by  a  mannered  attendant 
whose  young  face,  framed  in  obsolete  side-whiskers, 


THE   CRUCIBLE  209 

reminded  her  of  certain  middle-Victorian  bucks  of 
Thackeray's  whom  she  had  come  to  know  during 
spare  moments  at  the  dental  parlors.  This  guide 
led  her  into  a  large  reading-room  where  he  assured  her 
ladies  were  welcome,  despite  the  frowns  of  the  pre- 
dominant sex  whose  peace  they  ruffled,  and  found  her 
the  two  or  three  illustrated  periodicals  she  named. 

Without  exception  these  contained  Atwood's  work, 
a  fact  which  impressed  her  tremendously;  and  with- 
out exception  they  bore  testimony  to  his  superiority 
as  emphatically  as  MacGregor.  She  pored  over  these 
drawings  one  by  one,  weighing  them  much  as  she 
weighed  his  spoken  thought,  and  judging  them,  no 
less  than  his  speech,  most  candid  mirrors  of  his 
personality.  In  what  this  personality's  appeal  con- 
sisted, she  had  neither  the  detachment  nor  the  wish  to 
define;  she  could  only  uncritically  feel  its  sincerity, 
its  romance,  and  its  power. 

She  craved  a  fuller  knowledge,  however,  than  these 
mute  witnesses  could  give,  and  the  desire  presently 
drew  her  back  into  the  high-vaulted  chamber  where 
the  library's  activities  seemed  to  focus;  and  here, 
bewildered  by  the  riches  of  the  card  catalogue,  she 
was  luckily  seen  by  the  quiet  old  man  who  lent  his 
dignity  to  the  head  of  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn's  table.  He 
smiled  gently  upon  her  over  his  spectacles,  pondering 
the  motive  behind  her  request  as  he  had  speculated 
about  the  motives  of  thousands  before  her,  and  in- 
stantly, out  of  a  head  whose  store  she  felt  that  she 
had  scantily  appreciated,  produced  half  a  dozen  likely 


210  THE   CRUCIBLE 

references  which  he  straightway  bade  a  precocious 
small  boy  to  track  to  their  fastnesses  in  some  myste- 
rious region  he  called  the  stacks;  himself,  meanwhile, 
with  a  faded  gallantry,  escorting  her  to  a  desk  in  a 
scholarly  retreat  where  only  feminine  glances  ques- 
tioned her  coming. 

So  ensconced,  she  came  upon  the  facts  she  sought  in 
a  bound  volume  of  a  journal  devoted  chiefly  to  the 
fine  arts.  She  learned  here  that  her  knight  errant's 
full  name  was  Francis  Craig  Atwood,  that  New  York 
claimed  the  honor  of  his  birthplace,  and  that  he  was  a 
trifle  less  than  ten  years  older  than  herself.  There 
followed  a  list  of  his  schools,  which  ended  with  Ju- 
lien's  Academy  in  Paris,  where  it  appeared  he  had 
gone  the  autumn  after  their  meeting,  and  had  ex- 
hibited canvases  at  the  Salons  of  two  successive  years. 
His  return  to  America  and  his  instant  recognition 

O 

coincided  closely  with  her  own  coming  to  New  York. 
The  concluding  analysis  of  his  work  bristled  with 
technicalities,  but  she  read  into  it  the  qualities  which 
she  perceived  or  imagined  in  the  man,  and,  staring 
into  the  dusty  alcove  over  against  her  seat,  lost  her- 
self in  a  brown  study  of  what  such  success  as  this 
probably  meant  to  him.  Newspaper  paragraphs 
about  his  comings  and  goings,  she  supposed,  many 
sketches  like  this  under  her  hand,  social  opportuni- 
ties of  course,  the  flattery  of  women,  friendships 
with  the  clever  and  the  rich.  It  rather  daunted  her 
to  find  him  a  celebrity,  and  at  this  pass  nothing  could 
have  so  routed  her  self-possession  as  to  discover  that 


THE   CRUCIBLE  211 

a  man,  of  whose  nearness  at  an  adjacent  bookcase 
she  had  been  vaguely  aware,  was  no  other  than  At- 
wood  himself. 

"Thank  you,"  he  laughed,  with  a  wave  of  the  hand 
toward  the  telltale  page.  "  But  there's  better  reading 
in  the  library." 

Jean  clapped  to  the  offending  volume  and  blushed 
her  guiltiest. 

"You  must  think  me  very  silly,"  she  stammered. 
"Mr.  MacGregor  praised  your  work,  showed  me  the 
portrait  - 

"Of  course  he  did.  You  have  discovered  Mac's 
weakness  and  his  dangerous  charm.  He  believes 
all  his  friends  are  geniuses.  You'll  grow  as  conceited 
as  the  rest  of  us  in  time." 

"And  have  the  other  conceited  friends  done  work 
like  yours  and  said  nothing  about  it?"  she  asked. 

"A  thousand  times  better.  You've  no  idea  what 
a  clever  lot  of  men  and  women  Mac  knows."  He 
rapidly  instanced  several  artists,  sculptors,  and  writers 
of  prominence,  adding :  "  But  you  will  see  them  all 
at  The  Oasis  sooner  or  later.  You've  probably  no- 
ticed that  Mac  is  one  of  those  rareties  who  can  talk 
while  they  work.  What  would  hinder  most  people, 
only  stimulates  him.  And  it  stimulates  the  other 
fellow,  too.  I  always  drop  in  on  him  for  a  tonic 
when  my  own  stuff  lags.  I  was  there  this  afternoon, 
in  fact,  though  for  another  reason.  I  wanted  to 
see  you.  It  must  have  been  telepathy  that  brought 
me  down  here;  I  thought  it  was  'The  Gadzooks* !" 


ai2  THE   CRUCIBLE 

'The  Gadzooks, '"  she  puzzled. 

"Merely  my  slang  for  the  Revolutionary  romance," 
he  explained.  "I'm  illustrating  still  another  one, 
and  ran  in  here  to  resolve  my  doubts  about  bag-wigs. 
My  novelist  seems  to  have  invented  a  new  variety. 
But  about  you :  if  you  don't  mind  the  weather,  and 
have  nothing  better  to  do,  I  should  like  to  take  you 
over  to  a  Fifth  Avenue  picture  dealer's  to  see  a  so- 
called  Velasquez  that's  come  into  the  market." 

Jean  absorbed  more  than  the  true  rank  and  value 
of  Velasquez's  portraiture.  Wet  or  dry,  the  weather 
was  irreproachable.  Did  it  rain,  there  were  yet  other 
picture  dealers'  secluded  galleries  where  one  might 
loiter  luxuriously;  while  for  the  intervals  of  sunshine 
the  no  less  fascinating  shop-windows  awaited,  each  a 
glimpse  into  the  wonderland  of  Europe,  which  her 
guide  seemed  to  know  so  well.  They  even  discussed 
going  on  to  the  Metropolitan  to  look  in  at  a  Frans 
Hals  and  a  Rembrandt,  which  the  talk  of  Velasquez 
suggested,  but  Atwood's  absurd  watch,  corroborated 
by  several  equally  ridiculous  clocks  of  the  neighbor- 
hood, said  plainly  that  it  was  well  past  closing  time 
at  the  museum  and  indeed  quite  the  day's  end  here 
among  the  shops. 

He  was  loath  to  let  her  go. 

"It's  been  like  a  too  short  trip  abroad,"  he  said. 
"I  hate  to  book  for  home  just  yet.  Why  can't  we 
dine  as  we  did  last  night  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Yesterday  was  an  occasion." 


THE   CRUCIBLE  213 

"Say  Italy?"  he  persisted.  "We've  skimmed 
England,  France,  the  Low  Countries;  why  not  Italy  ? 
I  know  a  little  place  that's  as  Italian  as  Naples.  You 
would  never  guess  its  existence.  It  looks  like  every 
other  brownstone  horror  outside,  with  not  a  hint  of 
its  real  business,  for  they  say  old  Gaetano  Sanfratello 
has  no  license.  He  looks  you  over  through  the  base- 
ment grating,  and,  if  you're  found  worthy,  leads  you 
through  a  tunnel  of  a  hallway  into  the  most  wonder- 
ful kitchen  you  ever  saw.  It's  as  clean  as  clean  and 
is  a  regular  treasure-house  of  shining  copper.  Then 
you'll  find  yourself  out  in  what  prosaic  New  York  calls 
a  back  yard,  but  which,  in  fact,  is  a  trattoria  in  the 
kingdom  of  Victor  Emmanuel,  whose  lithograph  you 
will  see  above  the  door.  There  are  clusters  of  ripen- 
ing grapes  in  the  trellis  overhead,  and  Chianti  or 
Capri  antico  —  real  Capri  —  on  the  cloth  below; 
and  they'll  serve  you  such  artichoke  soups,  cheese 
souffles,  and  reincarnations  of  the  chestnut,  as  the 
gods  eat !  And  Gaetano's  pretty  daughter  will  wait 
upon  us  and  sing  'Bella  Napoli,'  and  perhaps,  if 
we're  in  great  luck,  she'll  let  us  have  a  peep  at  her 
bambino  which  she  keeps  swaddled  precisely  like 
the  one  in  that  copy  of  Luca  della  Robbia  you  are 
staring  at  this  minute.  Aren't  you  tempted?" 

She  was,  but  resisted  successfully;  and  when  he 
saw  that  she  was  inflexible,  he  walked  with  her  to  her 
own  street,  planning  other  holidays  of  a  future  which 
should  know  no  shadows. 

"You  must  forget  that  gray  time  you've  left  be- 


214  THE   CRUCIBLE 

hind  you,"  he  declared.  "Call  this  your  real  begin- 
ning —  your  rebirth,  your  renaissance." 

So  in  truth  it  was.  The  weeks  following  were 
weeks  of  rapid  growth  and  ripening,  which,  Atwood's 
influence  admitted,  yet  found  their  compelling  force 
in  the  girl's  own  will.  The  ambition  to  do  her  ut- 
most for  MacGregor,  to  learn  what  books  could  teach 
of  the  life  he  knew  by  living,  took  her  back  repeatedly 
to  the  library;  then  other  suggestions  of  the  studio, 
which,  even  at  its  narrowest,  was  a  school  of  curious 
knowledge  about  common  things  that  few,  save  the 
artist,  seemed  to  see  as  they  were.  Who  but  he,  for 
instance,  stopped  to  consider  that  sunlight  filtering 
through  leaves  fell  in  circles ;  that  shadows  were  vio- 
let, not  black;  that  tobacco  smoke  from  the  mouth 
was  of  another  color  than  the  graceful  spiral  which 
rose  from  the  tip  of  a  cigarette  ?  But  this  field  opened 
into  innumerable  others  in  the  wide  domain  where 
her  two  friends  plied  their  differing  talents;  while 
these,  in  turn,  marched  with  the  boundaries  of  others 
still,  whose  only  limits  were  Humanity's.  Life  itself 
set  the  true  horizon  to  MacGregor's  Oasis. 

Among  MacGregor's  intimates  who  shared  the 
secret  of  a  knock  which  admitted  them  at  all  hours, 
but  who,  busy  men  themselves,  came  oftenest  after 
the  north  light  failed,  was  a  sculptor  named  Karl 
Richter.  This  man's  specialty  was  the  American 
Indian,  but  he  also  had  known  the  Arab  at  first- 
hand, and  Africa  in  one  or  another  of  its  myriad 
phases  was  ever  the  topic  when  he  and  MacGregor 


THE   CRUCIBLE  215 

foregathered.  Listening  to  their  talk,  Jean  came  to 
visualize  the  bronze-skinned  folk,  the  vivid  market- 
places, the  wild  music  of  hautboys  and  tom-toms, 
the  gardens  of  fig  and  olive  and  orange  and  palm, 
the  waysides  thicketed  with  bamboo,  tamarisk,  or 
scarlet  geranium,  and  the  desert,  —  above  all,  the 
mysterious,  terrible,  beautiful  desert,  —  as  things 
which  her  own  senses  had  known.  It  chanced  one 
day  that  they  spoke  of  camels  and,  as  often,  began  to 
argue ;  and  that  Richter,  to  prove  his  point,  whipped 
from  his  pocket  a  lump  of  modeling  wax,  which, 
under  his  wonderful  fingers,  became  in  a  twinkling 
a  striking  counterfeit  of  the  beast  itself.  It  could  not 
have  been  more  than  an  inch  in  height,  but  it  was 
a  very  camel,  stubborn,  complaining,  alive.  Mac- 
Gregor  confuted,  the  sculptor  annihilated  the  little 
animal  with  a  careless  pinch,  tossed  the  wax  aside, 
and  soon  after  went  his  way. 

Dissatisfied  with  his  work,  MacGregor  presently 
caught  his  canvas  from  the  easel,  and,  laying  it  prone 
upon  the  floor,  began  by  shifting  strips  of  card- 
board to  hunt  the  truer  composition.  Jean,  left  to 
herself,  took  up  the  discarded  wax,  tried  vainly  to 
coax  back  the  vanished  camel,  and  then  amused 
herself  with  a  conception  of  her  own.  So  absorbed 
did  she  become  that  MacGregor  finished  his  experi- 
ments unheeded,  and,  receiving  no  answer  to  a  ques- 
tion, still  unregarded  came  and  peered  over  her 
shoulder. 

"Great  Jupiter  Pluvius  !"  he  exclaimed. 


216  THE   CRUCIBLE 

Jean  whirled  about. 

"How  you  startled  me!"    she  said. 

"  It's  nothing  to  the  way  you've  startled  me.  Where 
did  you  see  that  head  you've  modeled  ?" 

"Oh,  this?"  She  tried  to  put  the  wax  away. 
"It's  nothing  —  only  a  baby  in  our  block." 

MacGregor  pounced  upon  the  model  and  bore  it 
to  the  light. 

"Nothing!  Merely  a  study  from  life,  that's  all! 
Just  a  trifle  thrown  off  in  your  odd  moments!" 
He  turned  the  little  head  round  and  round,  showering 
exclamations.  "Who  taught  you?"  he  demanded, 
striding  back.  "Somebody  had  a  finger  in  it  besides 
you.  There  are  lines  here  that  can't  be  purely  intui- 
tive." 

"I  used  to  watch  my  father." 

"Was  he  a  sculptor?" 

"  He  might  have  been,  if  he'd  had  the  chance.  But 
he  had  to  work  at  other  things,  and  he  married  — " 

"I  know,  I  know,"  MacGregor  groaned.  "Love 
in  a  cottage  and  to  hell  with  art !  But  he  couldn't 
keep  his  thoughts  or  his  hands  from  it.  He  modeled 
when  he  could  ?" 

Jean  nodded  dreamily. 

"Sundays,  mainly,"  she  answered.  "We  used  to 
go  into  the  country  together.  He  found  a  bed  of  good 
clay  near  a  creek  where  the  mint  grew.  I  can  never 
smell  mint  without  remembering.  I  couldn't  go 
back  there  after  he  died." 

MacGregor  gave  her  a  sidelong  glance,  hemmed, 


THE   CRUCIBLE  217 

made  an  unnecessary  trip  across  the  studio,  and  kicked 
a  fallen  burnous  violently. 

"But  you  went  on  modeling?"  he  asked,  return- 
ing. 

"Yes  —  by  and  by.     Then,  later,  I  stopped." 

"Why?" 

"I  —  I  hadn't  the  clay  ?"   she  evaded. 

MacGregor  brooded  over  her  handiwork  a  moment 
longer,  then  squared  his  jaw. 

"You'll  have  the  'clay'  hereafter,"  he  said. 


XXI 

AT  the  outset  she  was  rather  skeptical  of  his  faith 
in  her.  Had  not  Atwood  said  that  MacGregor  saw 
genius  in  all  his  friends  ?  But  the  younger  man  now 
hailed  him  a  most  discerning  judge. 

"It's  the  something  I  divined,"  he  declared  jubi- 
lantly, "the  gold-bearing  vein  I  believed  in,  but 
hadn't  the  luck  to  unearth.  Now  to  develop  it ! 
What  does  Mac  advise  ?" 

"One  of  the  art  schools,"  said  Jean.  "I  can  go 
evenings,  it  seems." 

"And  work  days  !     It's  a  stiff  programme  you  plan." 

"But  the  school  won't  mean  work,"  she  declared. 
"Then,  too,  the  posing  comes  far  easier  than  it  did. 
Mr.  MacGregor  says  my  muscles  are  almost  as  steady 
as  a  professional's." 

"So  he  tells  me.  I'm  going  to  insist  on  sharing 
your  time.  He  has  monopolized  you  long  enough." 

MacGregor's  monopoly  did  not  cease  at  once,  how- 
ever. His  first  step  on  discovering  Jean's  talent  was 
to  enlist  Richter's  expert  criticism  and  counsel  with 
the  practical  outcome  that  the  sculptor's  door  swung 
open  to  her  in  the  daylight  hours  when  MacGregor 
worked  with  male  models.  The  clay-modeling-room 
at  the  art  school  was  a  wonderful  place.  Its  casts,  its 

218 


THE   CRUCIBLE  219 

tools,  its  methods,  were  a  revelation  after  the  crude 
shifts  with  which  her  father  had  had  to  content  him- 
self; but  Richter' s  studio  transcended  it  as  a  uni- 
versity transcends  a  kindergarten.  Here  were  con- 
ceived ideas  which  found  perpetuity  in  bronze ! 

Studio  and  sculptor  were  each  unique.  A  little 
man  of  crippled  frame,  Karl  Richter  delighted  in  the 
muscular  and  the  colossal  and  walked  a  pigmy 
amidst  his  own  creations.  Michael  Angelo  was  his 
god;  but  his  manner  was  his  own,  and  the  Indians 
and  cow-boys  he  loved  best  to  express  were  remote 
enough  from  the  great  Florentine's  subjects  to  acquit 
him  of  imitation.  His  frail  physique  notwithstand- 
ing, he  had  been  at  pains  to  see  for  himself  the  primi- 
tive life  he  adored,  and  the  idler  who  coined  "The 
Oasis"  dubbed  the  sculptor's  place  "The  Wigwam," 
and  spread  a  facetious  tale  that  Richter  went  about 
his  work  in  blanket  and  moccasins,  and  habitually 
smoked  a  calumet  which  had  once  belonged  to  Sit- 
ting Bull.  Richter  never  denied  this  myth,  which 
by  now  had  received  the  sanction  of  print,  and  took 
huge  satisfaction  in  the  crestfallen  glances  unknown 
callers  gave  his  conventional  dress.  However,  the 
studio  itself,  a  transformed  stable,  was  sufficiently 
picturesque.  It  overflowed  with  spoils  from  ranch 
and  tepee,  and,  thanks  to  the  Wild  West  show  which 
furnished  MacGregor  occasional  Arabs,  sometimes 
sheltered  genuine,  if  sophisticated,  red  men. 

About  this  time  Jean  left  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn's,  whose 
neighborhood  Paul,  after  dejected  silence,  had  again 


220  THE   CRUCIBLE 

begun  to  haunt.  She  had  thus  far  eluded  him,  but 
meet  they  must,  she  felt,  if  she  remained;  and  with 
Amy's  abrupt  departure,  which  now  came  to  pass, 
she  changed  to  a  boarding-house  of  Atwood's  recom- 
mending in  Irving  Place. 

"  There  are  no  signs  of  the  trade  about  it,  fashionable 
or  unfashionable,"  he  said.  "It's  just  a  homelike 
place,  neither  too  large  nor  too  small,  where  you  will 
see  mainly  art  students.  Many  of  them,  like  you, 
are  making  their  own  way,  and  all  of  them  are  dead 
in  earnest.  All  the  illustrators  know  Mrs.  Saunders. 
Half  of  us  have  lived  under  her  roof  some  time  or 
other." 

"You,  too!" 

He  smiled  at  her  tone. 

"I  wasn't  born  with  a  golden  spoon,  you  know. 
Some  New  Yorkers  aren't.  I  inherited  a  little 
money,  but  I'm  not  a  plutocrat  yet,  even  if  editors 
do  smile  upon  me.  Julie  and  I  thoroughly  mastered 
the  gentle  art  of  scrimping  at  one  time.  Have  I 
ever  mentioned  my  sister,  Mrs,  Van  Ostade?" 

"You  spoke  of  her  the  day  I  saw  you  first." 

"At  the  birches?"    he  returned,  surprised. 

"You  said  she  would  not  understand." 

His  eyes  sobered. 

"I  remember,"  he  said.  "And  it  was  true. 
Neither  would  she  understand  now,  I  fear.  She  has 
been  both  wedded  and  widowed  since.  You'll  see 
her  at  the  studio  yet,  if  MacGregor  ever  lets  us  begin 
work  together.  She  surprises  me  there  when  she 


THE   CRUCIBLE  221 

thinks  I  am  neglecting  my  duties  as  a  social  being. 
Julie  has  all  the  zeal  of  a  proselyte  in  her  missionary 
labors  for  society,"  he  added  laughingly.  "She 
married  into  one  of  the  old  Dutch  families." 

Jean  found  that  a  tradition  of  Mrs.  Van  Ostade's 
residence  in  Irving  Place  still  lingered  there.  She 
was  spoken  of  as  Craig  Atwood's  sister,  the  clever  girl 
who  had  jockied  for  position,  on  nothing  a  year,  by 
cultivating  fashionable  charities.  Settlement  work, 
it  appeared,  had  been  the  fulcrum  for  her  lever.  No 
one  here,  however,  had  known  her  personally,  save 
Mrs.  Saunders,  who  was  a  paragon  of  reticence  when 
gossip  was  afield.  Indeed,  a  dearth  of  gossip,  in  the 
invidious  sense  of  the  word,  was  a  negative  virtue 
to  which  her  whole  establishment  might  lay  claim. 
Mainly  art  students,  as  Atwood  had  predicted,  the 
sharpest  personalities  of  Jean's  new  acquaintances 
dealt  with  the  vagaries  of  masters  whom  they  fur- 
tively admired  and  not  seldom  aped.  Thus  the  life- 
class  girl  would  furrow  her  pretty  forehead  over  the 
drawing  of  a  beginner  at  antique  with  the  precise 
"Ha!"  and  "Not  half  bad!"  of  the  distinguished 
artist  and  critic  who  twice  a  week  set  her  own  heart 
palpitating  with  his  crisp  condemnation  or  praise. 

Illustrating,  painting,  sculpture,  architecture,  deco- 
rative design,  whatever  their  individual  choice,  life 
for  each  had  its  center  in  the  particular  school  of  his 
or  her  adhesion.  Art  —  always  Art  —  was  the  be- 
ginning and  end  of  their  table-talk,  and  even  the  two 
young  men  who  had  other  interests,  a  lawyer  and  a 


222  THE   CRUCIBLE 

playwright,  both  embryonic,  spoke  the  language  of 
the  studios.  To  this  community  of  interest  was 
added  the  discovery  that  all  derived  from  country 
stock.  Half  a  dozen  states  had  their  nominal  alle- 
giance, and  not  even  Mrs.  Saunders,  who  seemed 
as  metropolitan  as  the  City  Hall,  could  boast  New 
York  as  her  birthplace.  They  brimmed  with  a  fine 
youthful  confidence  in  their  ability  to  wrest  success 
from  this  alien  land  of  promise,  which  charged  their 
atmosphere  electrically  and  spurred  Jean's  already 
abundant  energy  to  tireless  endeavor.  Her  days 
were  all  too  short,  and  Atwood,  whose  invitations  she 
repeatedly  refused  for  her  art's  sake,  began  to  caution 
her  against  overwork. 

"  Philosophic  frivolity,  as  my  sister  calls  it,  has  its 
uses,"  he  said.  "I  usually  agree  with  her  social 
preachments,  even  if  I  don't  observe  them  very  faith- 
fully. You  must  know  Julie.  I'll  ask  her  to  call." 

Whether  he  did  so  or  not,  Jean  was  unaware.  At 
all  events,  Mrs.  Van  Ostade  did  not  renew  her  ac- 
quaintance with  Irving  Place,  nor  did  Atwood  broach 
the  subject  again.  If  the  social  columns  might  be 
believed,  the  lady  was  amply  preoccupied  with  philo- 
sophic frivolity.  MacGregor  presently  turned  a 
searching  light  upon  her  personality. 

"Notice  that  bit  of  impertinent  detail,  the  unneces- 
sary jewel  ?"  he  queried,  stabbing  with  his  pipe-stem 
at  one  of  Atwood's  drawings  which  a  premature 
Christmas  magazine  had  reproduced  in  color. 
"Craig  never  did  it." 


THE   CRUCIBLE  223 

"Then  who  did  ?"   Jean  asked. 

"His  sister." 

"Does  she  draw?" 

"By  proxy.  I  mean  she  suggested  this  as  she  has 
suggested  every  false,  vitiating  note  that's  crept  into 
his  work.  Left  to  himself,  Craig  never  paints  the  lily. 
But  he  defers  to  her  as  a  younger  brother  often  will 
to  a  sister  who  has  mothered  or  stepmothered  him. 
It  was  probably  a  good  thing  once  —  I  admit  she 
has  brains  and  push;  but  now  it's  time  the  coddling 
stopped.  It  did  let  up  for  a  while  when  she  went  over 
to  the  Dutch  —  she  was  too  busy  to  bother  with  him ; 
but  with  her  husband  underground  and  Craig  com- 
ing on,  it  has  begun  again.  Artistically  she's  his 
evil  genius.  Of  course  he  can't  see  it,  or  won't. 
I've  done  my  level  best  to  beat  it  into  him." 

"You  have  told  him!" 

"  Certainly ;  and  her  too.  I  have  known  them  both 
for  years.  What  are  you  grinning  at?" 

"Your  candor.     What  did  he  say?" 

MacGregor  scowled. 

"Same  old  rot  I'm  always  hearing,"  he  grumbled. 
"Called  me  a  woman-hater.  What  do  you  think?" 
challenging  her  abruptly.  "You've  seen  me  at  close 
quarters  for  some  time.  Do  I  strike  you  as  that  sort 
of  man  ?  I  want  your  unvarnished  opinion." 

Jean  answered  him  with  his  own  frankness. 

"A  woman-hater?"  she  repeated.  "Never.  I 
think  you  are"  —  she  searched  for  the  word  —  "a 
woman-idolater. " 


224  THE   CRUCIBLE 

MacGregor  grimly  assured  himself  that  no  sarcasm 
was  intended. 

"Expound,"  he  directed. 

"I  mean  it  seems  to  me  you  rate  Woman  so  high 
that  mere  women  can't  realize  your  ideal." 

"Humph  !"  he  commented  ungraciously.  "Where 
did  you  learn  to  turn  cheap  epigrams  ?  Probably 
it's  an  echo  of  something  you've  read." 

He  addressed  her  variously  as  Miss  Epigrams, 
Lady  Blessington,  and  Madame  de  Stael  as  the  work 
went  forward,  always  with  profound  gravity,  until 
finally,  when  he  saw  her  color  rise  to  his  teasing,  he 
gave  his  full-lunged  laugh  and  confessed. 

"All  the  same,  you're  right,  Miss  Epigrams. 
That's  one  reason  why  I'm  still  unattached.  It's 
also  why  I  haven't  cared  to  see  Craig  take  the  only 
sure  cure.  A  wife  would  teach  his  sister  her  place, 
if  she  had  the  right  metal."  He  chuckled  at  the 
vision  his  words  conjured.  "But  it  would  be  a 
battle  royal." 

It  was  spring  before  Jean  herself  saw  Mrs.  Van 
Ostade.  She  had  posed  for  Atwood  frequently  after 
Christmas,  but  had  chanced  always  to  be  either  with 
MacGregor  or  Richter  when  his  sister  visited  the 
studio,  until  the  April  afternoon  when  Julie's  knock 
interrupted  an  overdue  illustration  which  Atwood 
was  toiling  mightily  to  finish.  He  frowned  at  the 
summons  and  answered  it  without  putting  down  the 
maul-stick,  palette,  and  brushes  with  which  his 
hands  were  cumbered;  but  his  "You,  Julie!"  at  the 


THE   CRUCIBLE  225 

door  hinted  no  impatience,  nor  his  returning  step 
aught  but  infinite  leisure  as  he  issued  with  his  dark- 
eyed,  dark-haired,  dark-skinned  caller  from  behind 
the  screen. 

"Those  stairs  !"  sighed  the  lady.  Then,  observing 
Jean,  she  subjected  her  to  a  drastic  ordeal  by  lorgnon, 
which,  raking  her  from  face  to  gown,  —  where  the  in- 
quisition lingered,  —  returned  with  added  intensity 
upon  her  face. 

Hot  plowshares  could  have  been  no  more  fiery  for 
poor  Jean,  who,  sufficiently  aglow  with  the  knowledge 
that  the  dress  upon  her  back  was  a  piece  of  Mrs. 
Van  Ostade's  evening  finery  abandoned  to  the  uses 
of  the  studio,  found  herself  tormented  by  the  certainty 
that  somewhere  in  her  vulnerable  past  she  and  this 
sister  of  Craig  Atwood's  had  met  before. 

A  sympathetic  reflection  of  her  embarrassment  lit 
the  man's  face. 

"This  is  Miss  Fanshaw,"  he  interposed,  "herself 
an  artist.  You  have  heard  me  speak  of  her,  Julie." 

The  lorgnon  dropped  and  the  two  women  exchanged 
a  bow  perceptible  to  the  naked  eye. 

"I  know  the  face,"  stated  Mrs.  Van  Ostade,  with 
an  impersonal  air  of  classifying  scientific  phenomena. 
"Where  did  I  see  it?" 

Jean  now  recalled  this  elusive  detail  most  vividly, 
but  she  kept  her  head. 

"Probably  in  Mr.  Atwood's  work,"  she  suggested 
coldly. 

"Of  course,"  seconded  Atwood,  keen  to  end  the 


226  THE   CRUCIBLE 

incident.  "You  will  find  Miss  Fanshaw  in  half  my 
recent  stuff." 

"The  living  face  has  no  pictorial  associations  what- 
ever," retorted  his  sister,  with  decision.  "  I  shall  re- 
member in  time.  But  go  on  with  your  work,  Craig. 
I  did  not  come  to  disturb  you  —  merely  to  bring  a 
piece  of  news  which  I'll  tell  you  as  soon  as  I  get  my 
breath." 

Atwood  placed  a  chair  and,  returning  to  his  easel, 
made  a  show  of  work  which  Jean's  trained  eye  knew 
for  his  usual  polite  pretense  with  visitors  who  assumed 
themselves  no  hindrance;  while  Mrs.  Van  Ostade, 
throwing  back  her  furs,  relegated  the  model  to  the 
ranks  of  the  inanimate  studio  properties,  of  which 
her  leisured  survey  now  took  stock. 

"Those  stairs!"  she  said  again,  pursuing  her 
breath  by  the  unique  method  of  lavishing  more. 
"  Really,  Craig,  you  couldn't  have  pitched  on  a  more 
inconvenient  rookery." 

"We  thought  it  a  miracle  for  the  money  once,"  he 
reminded.  "I  dare  say  I  could  find  a  more  conven- 
ient workshop  in  one  of  the  new  office-buildings,  but 
then  I  shouldn't  have  my  open  fire." 

"You  could  have  it  at  the  Copley  Studios,  and 
modern  comforts,  too." 

"Up  there!"  he  scoffed.  "I  don't  belong  in  the 
pink-tea  circle,  Julie." 

Mrs.  Van  Ostade  refused  to  smile  with  him. 

"The  location  counts,"  she  insisted. 

"With  some  people." 


THE   CRUCIBLE  227 

"With  the  helpful  people.  I've  thought  it  over 
carefully;  I've  used  my  eyes  and  ears.  The  studio 
unquestionably  carries  weight.  It  ought  to  be  some- 
thing more  than  a  workshop,  as  you  call  it.  It  should 
have  atmosphere.  Even  our  friend  down  the  street 
has  achieved  that.  Barbaric  as  it  is,  MacGregor's 
studio  has  a  distinct  artistic  unity." 

"Mac's  place  reflects  his  work.     So  does  mine." 

"Yours!  It's  a  jumble  of  everything,  a  junk- 
shop." 

"Of  course  it  is,"  he  laughed.  "I've  ransacked 
two-thirds  of  these  treasures  from  the  Ghetto.  But 
even  junk-shops  have  atmosphere  —  a  musty  one  — 
—  and  so,  it  logically  follows,  must  my  studio." 

She  indulged  his  trifling  with  a  divine  patience. 

"Could  you  receive  Mrs.  Joyce-Reeves  in  such  a 
place?"  she  queried  sweetly. 

"Certainly;  if  any  possible  errand  could  bring  that 
high  and  mighty  personage  over  the  door-sill." 

"There  is  a  possible  reason." 

Her  tone  drew  him  round.  Jean,  forgotten  by 
both,  discerned  that  he  also  attached  a  significance 
to  the  hypothetical  visit.  She  was  at  a  loss  to  account 
for  this,  Mrs.  Joyce-Reeves's  prominence  in  the  social 
world  of  New  York  notwithstanding. 

"Is  this  your  news,  Julie  ?"   he  demanded. 

His  sister  savored  his  quickened  interest  a  moment. 

"Part  of  it,"  she  replied.  "She  saw  your  dry- 
point  of  me  at  Mrs.  Quentin  Van  Ostade's  the  other 
day." 


228  THE  CRUCIBLE 

"The  dry-point!"  he  deprecated.  "It  was  only 
an  experiment." 

"  So  I  told  her.  She  asked  if  you  do  anything  in  the 
way  of  portraiture  in  oil,  and  of  course  I  answered 
yes." 

"I  say!" 

"Well,  haven't  you?" 

"Trash,  yes;    cart-loads  of  it." 

"  Perhaps  you  call  your  portrait  of  Malcolm  Mac- 
Gregor  trash  ?  Mrs.  Joyce-Reeves  did  not." 

" She  saw  it!" 

"I  dropped  casually  that  it  had  been  hung  with 
the  Fifth  Avenue  exhibition  of  MacGregor's  African 
studies,  and  she  took  the  address.  That  was  day 
before  yesterday.  This  afternoon  I  met  her  again  — 
met  her  leaving  the  gallery." 

"Well  ?"  jogged  Atwood,  impatiently. 

"She  told  me  she  had  bought  two  of  MacGregor's 
things,"  continued  Mrs.  Van  Ostade,  not  to  be  hur- 
ried. "She  took  a  desert  nocturne  and  that  queer 
veiled  woman  at  a  window  —  you  remember?" 

"Do  I!"  He  spun  about.  "You  heard  that, 
Jean  ?  Mrs.  Joyce-Reeves  has  bought  'The  Lattice' ! 
Miss  Fanshaw  posed  for  it,  Julie." 

"Indeed  !"  The  lorgnon,  again  unsheathed  at  the 
intimate  "  Jean,"  once  more  took  cognizance  of  that 
young  person's  existence.  "I  don't  care  for  it.  But, 
what  is  more  important,  Mrs.  Joyce-Reeves  mentioned 
your  portrait." 

"Yes?" 


THE   CRUCIBLE  229 

"And  this  time  asked  for  your  address." 

"Jove!     You  think—" 

"I'm  positive  she'll  give  you  a  commission." 

"Jove!"  he  exclaimed  again,  "what  a  chance!" 
and  paced  the  studio.  "Yet  she  may.  It's  her 
whim  to  pose  as  a  discoverer.  What  a  chance ! 
What  a  colossal  chance !  It  would  mean  —  what 
wouldn't  it  mean?"  He  stopped  excitedly  before 
the  escritoire  where  Jean  sat  waiting  to  resume  her 
interrupted  impersonation  of  a  note-writing  debu- 
tante. "It  would  take  nerve,  no  end  of  it.  She's 
been  painted  by  Sargent,  Chartran,  Zorn  —  all  the 
big  guns.  A  fellow  would  have  to  find  a  phase  they'd 
missed.  But  if  he  could !  You  can't  conceive  her 
influence,  Jean.  If  she  buys  a  man's  pictures,  all 
the  little  fish  in  her  pond  tumble  over  one  another  to 
buy  them,  too.  That's  not  the  main  issue,  however, 
though  I  don't  blink  its  importance.  The  oppor- 
tunity to  paint  her,  to  search  out  the  woman  behind  — 
that's  the  big  thing.  I  have  a  theory.  I  met  her 
once  —  she'd  bought  an  original  of  mine,  thanks 
again  to  Julie  —  and  something  she  let  fall  makes 
me  think  —  but  I'm  talking  as  if  I  had  the  commis- 
sion in  my  hands." 

Jean  scarcely  heard.  Sympathize  with  him  as  she 
might,  Julie  Van  Ostade's  face,  from  the  moment 
Atwood's  talk  ceased  to  be  hers  exclusively,  absorbed 
her  more. 

"Craig,"  broke  in  his  sister,  crisply,  "my  furs." 

He  touched  earth  blankly. 


230  THE  CRUCIBLE 

"Not  going,  Julie  ?" 

"My  furs,"  she  repeated. 

"But  I  haven't  begun  to  thank  you,"  he  said, 
obeying. 

"Is  not  that  also  premature?"  She  rustled  ma- 
jestically toward  the  door,  which  he  sprang  before  her 
to  open.  The  girl  was  but  a  lay  figure  in  her  path. 

Then  the  door  closed  and  Atwood,  wearing  a  look 
of  bewilderment,  came  slowly  up  the  studio  to  meet 
still  another  problem  in  feminine  psychology  in  the 
now  thoroughly  outraged  Jean. 

"Why  did  you  introduce  me?"  she  demanded 
bitterly.  "Why  couldn't  you  let  me  remain  a  com- 
mon model  to  her  ?  I  am  a  common  model  in  her 
eyes  —  common  in  every  sense.  I  remember  well 
enough  where  she  saw  me,  and  she'll  remember,  too, 
never  fear." 

"Jean!     Jean!"      He  came  to  her  in  distress. 

"  It  was  a  drinking-place,  and  the  girl  with  me  had 
drunk  too  much.  We  amused  your  sister's  theater- 
party  immensely.  They  were  probably  slumming  — 
seeing  low  life !" 

He  drew  a  calmer  account  from  her  presently. 

"I  know  the  place,"  he  said.  "It  had  rather  a 
vogue  before  people  found  out  that  it  was  only  sham- 
German,  after  all.  It's  a  perfectly  respectable  raths- 
keller. You  went  with  some  gentleman,  of  course  ?" 

Jean's  passion  for  confession  flagged. 

"With  a  friend  of  Amy's  from  the  boarding-house," 
she  answered  briefly. 


THE   CRUCIBLE  231 

Atwood  gave  a  relieved  laugh. 

"You  have  made  a  mountain  of  a  mole-hill,"  he 
told  her;  '"but  I'm  glad  you  mentioned  the  circum- 
stances. I'll  explain  to  Julie,  if  she  ever  thinks  of 
it  again.  Don't  misjudge  her,  Jean.  I  admit  she's 
unsympathetic  at  first  sight,  even  brusque ;  but  there's 
another  side,  believe  me.  You  saw  how  devoted  she 
is  to  my  interests." 

She  had  indeed  seen,  and  the  knowledge  rankled. 

"You  should  not  have  introduced  me,  made  me 
share  your  talk,"  she  said.  "You  meant  a  kindness, 
but  it  was  no  kindness;  it  was  a  humiliation,  a  — " 
Then  the  tension  snapped  and  her  head  went  down 
between  her  arms. 

"  Kindness ! "  He  swept  her  stormily  to  himself. 
"  Kindness,  Jean  !  Can't  you  see  why  I  wanted  you 
to  share  it  with  me  ?  Can't  you  see  that  I  want  you 
to  share  everything  ?  I  love  you,  Jean." 

For  a  long  moment  she  yielded;  the  next  she  had 
slipped  from  him  and  the  escritoire  was  between 
them. 

"Don't,"  she  forbade.  "You  must  not  say  these 
things  to  me." 

"Must  not?" 

"I  can't  marry  you." 

"Can't !     Yet  a  moment  ago  — " 

"I  can't  marry  you,"  she  repeated  breathlessly. 

"  But  your  kiss  - 

"Was  a  lie  —  pity  —  what  you  like.  I  was  un- 
strung. I  —  I  don't  love  you." 


232  THE   CRUCIBLE 

He  searched  her  face  for  a  perplexed  instant. 

"Jean,"  he  commanded;   "look  at  me!" 

She  faced  him. 

"Now  tell  me  that  again  —  straight  in  the  eyes." 

"  Don't,"  she  entreated. 

"Say  it!" 

"You  heard  me." 

"  I  want  to  hear  it  again  —  on  your  honor ! "  He 
waited. 

"I  — I  refuse." 

He  strode  toward  her  in  triumph. 

"You  can't,"  he  cried.  "The  kiss  was  no  lie.  It 
was  the  truth,  the  sacred  truth !  What  unselfish 
madness  made  you  try  to  deceive  me  ?" 

"Remember  your  career,"  she  protested;  "your 
sister's  world,  which  is  your  world,  too." 

But  the  time  for  reasoning  was  past. 


XXII 

WHAT  passed  forthwith  between  brother  and  sis- 
ter Jean  neither  heard  nor  particularly  conjectured. 
Ways,  means,  and  motives  were  for  the  time  being 
eclipsed  by  the  tremendous  fact  that  Julie  called. 
That  she  acquitted  herself  of  this  formality  at  an  hour 
when  the  slightest  possible  knowledge  of  the  girl's 
habits  would  argue  her  absence  from  Irving  Place, 
roused  in  Jean  only  a  vast  relief.  The  mute  paste- 
board was  itself  sufficiently  formidable. 

She  was  even  more  relieved  that  through  some 
mischance,  for  which  Atwood,  who  went  with  her, 
taxed  himself,  her  return  call  found  Julie  out.  Visit- 
ing-cards she  had  none,  their  urgent  need  having 
hitherto  never  presented  itself;  but  Atwood  helped 
her  pretend  before  the  rather  overpowering  servant 
that  she  had  forgotten  them,  and,  scribbling  her  name 
upon  one  of  his  own,  bore  her  off  for  an  evening  at  the 
play. 

Here,  for  the  space  of  a  week,  matters  rested,  only 
to  hatch  a  fresh  embarrassment  in  the  end,  beside 
which  calls  were  trivialities.  This  was  no  less  than 
an  invitation  to  dine,  and  to  dine,  not  with  Mrs. 
Van  Ostade  and  Atwood  merely,  but  as  one  of  a  more 

233 


234  THE   CRUCIBLE 

or  less  formal  company  —  so  Craig  enlightened  her 
—  of  the  clever  or  socially  significant. 

Jean  heard  these  depressing  explanations  with  a 
sick  face. 

"I  can't  go,"  she  protested  quickly.  "Don't  ask 
me." 

"Can't!"  he  repeated.     "Why  not?" 

"You  know  why.  They're  different,  these  peo- 
ple —  as  different  from  me  as  if  I  were  Chinese." 

"What  rubbish!" 

"It's  the  truth.  Perhaps  later,  when  I've  studied 
more,  seen  more,  I  can  meet  them  and  not  shame 
you—" 

"Shame  me,  Jean!  If  you  realized  how  proud  I 
am—" 

"Then  don't  put  me  in  a  position  where  you  may 
feel  anything  but  proud.  Don't  make  me  go." 

He  reasoned  with  her  laughingly,  but  without  real 
understanding  of  her  reluctance. 

"  Besides,"  he  concluded,  "you  can't  decline.  The 
dinner  is  really  for  you." 

Her  cup  of  misery  brimmed  over. 

"Forme!" 

"In  a  way,  it's  in  honor  of  our  engagement,  even 
though  it  isn't  known." 

"Your  sister  wrote  nothing  of  this." 

"But  she  told  me.  She  said  she  wanted  you  to 
meet  some  of  our  friends.  Don't  be  afraid  of  them, 
Jean.  You're  as  clever  as  any  of  them,  while  in  looks 
not  a  woman  Julie  knows  can  hold  a  candle  to  you." 


THE   CRUCIBLE  235 

"  But  their  clothes  !  Don't  you  see  it's  impossible  ? 
I've  absolutely  nothing  to  wear." 

The  man  flicked  this  thistle-down  airily  away. 

"Dowds,  half  of 'em,  Julie's  crowd,"  he  declared. 
"You  don't  need  anything  elaborate.  Just  wear 
some  simple  gown  that  doesn't  hide  your  neck.  Sim- 
ple things  tell." 

"And  cost,"  she  added,  smiling  ruefully  at  his  neb- 
ulous solution.  "I  have  never  owned  a  dinner- 
gown  in  my  life." 

Atwood  had  an  inspiration. 

"Why,  the  studio  is  full  of  them,"  he  cried. 

"Your  sister's  —  every  one.  Could  I  wear  one 
of  her  dresses  to  her  dinner?" 

"Hardly.  What  inferior  intellects  men  have! 
But  is  there  any  objection  to  your  wearing  one  of  my 
gowns  ?  None  of  the  properties  fit  the  scheme  of 
illustrations  I've  planned  for  that  last  novel,  and  I've 
decided  to  have  one  or  two  things  made.  Now,  if  you'll 
choose  the  material  and  bother  with  the  fittings  — " 

Jean's  laugh  riddled  this  improvisation. 

"I'll  go  if  I  must,"  she  promised,  "but  I'll  wear 
my  own  clothes.  After  all,  I  know  something  about 
dressmaking." 

Nevertheless,  the  dress  problem  was  serious  when 
she  came  to  marshal  her  resources,  and  she  still 
vacillated  in  a  choice  of  evils,  when  Amy  happened 
in  with  a  fresh  point  of  view  and  an  authoritative 
knowledge  of  the  latest  mode,  which  cleared  the 
muddle  magically. 


236  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"Put  those  away,"  she  ordered,  dismissing  with 
a  glance  the  alternatives  arrayed  despairingly  on  the 
bed.  "Wear  white  or  a  color,  and  you'll  have  every 
old  cat  there  rubbering  to  see  how  it's  made.  Where's 
your  black  net  ?" 

"Here,"  said  Jean,  producing  it  without  enthu- 
siasm. "It's  hopeless." 

"It  is  a  sight  by  daylight,"  agreed  Amy,  candidly. 
"That  cheap  quality  always  gets  brown  and  rusty. 
But  under  gas  it  will  never  show.  Cut  those  sleeves 
off  at  the  elbow  and  edge  them  with  lace.  The  forty- 
nine-cent  kind  will  do,  and  you'll  only  need  two  yards." 

Jean's  spirits  rebounded  under  this  practical  en- 
couragement. 

"I  might  turn  in  the  neck  about  so  much,"  she  sug- 
gested, indicating  an  angle  by  no  means  extravagant. 

Amy  snatched  the  garment  away. 

"Scissors!"  she  commanded  decisively.  "This 
yoke  is  coming  out  altogether.  Can't  you  see,  Jean 
Fanshaw,  that  if  you  give  your  shoulders  a  chance, 
people  won't  think  twice  about  your  dress  ?  I'd 
just  give  millions  for  your  shoulders.  The  black 
will  set  them  off  as  nothing  else  could.  If  you  want 
a  dash  of  color,  I  don't  know  anything  smarter  than 
a  spray  of  pink-satin  roses.  Fred  thinks  I  twist  them 
up  almost  like  real." 

Jean  evaded  the  artificial  flowers  with  tact,  but 
otherwise  let  herself  be  guided  by  Amy,  under  whose 
fingers  the  transformation  of  the  black  net  went  for- 
ward rapidly. 


THE   CRUCIBLE  237 

"  It's  a  treat  to  have  something  to  do,"  Amy  avowed, 
declining  aid.  "I  get  awful  lonesome  over  at  our 
boarding-place.  You  never  have  time  any  more  to 
run  in,  and,  excepting  Saturday  afternoon  and  Sun- 
day, I  don't  see  anything  of  Fred.  This  is  his 
busiest  time,  he  says.  Fred's  a  crackerjack  sales- 
man. Last  month  he  sent  in  more  orders  than  any 
man  the  firm  ever  put  on  the  road.  He  just  seems  to 
hypnotize  customers,  same  as  he  did  me.  I  know 
you  would  like  him,  too,  Jean,  if  you  would  ever  come 
over  while  he's  home.  He  spoke  about  that  very 
thing  the  other  day.  He  said  it  looked  as  if  you  were 
trying  to  dodge  him.  He  wanted  me  to  ask  you  to 
go  down  to  the  Coney  Island  opening  last  Saturday, 
but  I  was  afraid  you'd  say  no  and  hurt  his  feelings, 
so  I  told  him  you  were  sure  to  be  at  your  art  school. 
I  was  glad  afterward  you  didn't  come,  for  we  met 
Stella  Wilkes." 

The  name  failed  to  stir  Jean  as  of  old. 

"I  don't  fear  Stella  now,"  she  said. 

"I  do,"  Amy  rejoined.  "It  gives  me  the  creeps 
to  be  anywhere  near  her.  Fred  says  he  can't  see  why. 
Men  are  queer  that  way.  She  came  up  to  us  on  the 
Iron  Pier,  where  we  were  having  beer  and  sandwiches, 
and  in  spite  of  all  my  hints,  he  asked  her  to  have 
something,  too.  She  told  us  she  was  singing  in  one 
of  the  music-halls  down  there,  and  nothing  would  do 
Fred  but  we  must  go  that  night  and  see  what  her  voice 
was  like.  She  spotted  us  down  in  the  crowd  and 
waved  her  hand  at  us  as  bold  as  you  please.  I  was 


238  THE   CRUCIBLE 

so  mad !  Fred  didn't  care.  He  thought  she  had  a 
bully  voice.  It  did  sound  first-rate  in  'coon  songs,' 
and  I  really  had  to  laugh  myself  at  some  of  her  antics 
when  she  danced  a  cake-walk.  Wouldn't  it  be  a 
queer  thing  if  she  got  to  be  well  known  ?  Fred  says 
there's  no  reason  why  she  shouldn't  earn  big  money, 
and  he's  a  dandy  judge  of  acting.  You  ought  to  hear 
him  spout  some  of  the  speeches  from  'Monte  Cristo.' 
We  always  go  to  a  show  Saturday  nights,  when  he's 
home,  and  generally  Sundays  to  sacred  concerts 
and  actors'  benefits.  I  wouldn't  go  Sundays  if  the 
rest  of  the  week  wasn't  so  dull.  If  I  only  had  a  flat, 
it  would  help  pass  the  time  away.  I  tease  Fred  for 
one  all  the  time.  Maybe  I  can  pretty  soon.  He's 
to  have  Long  Island  and  North  Jersey  for  his  terri- 
tory, and  that  will  bring  him  home  oftener  nights. 
Haven't  you  a  better  drop-skirt  than  this?" 

"Drop-skirt?"  The  transition  caught  Jean  day- 
dreaming over  a  contrast  between  Amy's  drummer 
and  an  illustrator  not  unknown  to  fame. 

"This  one  is  so  scant  it  spoils  the  whole  dress," 
explained  the  critic.  "I  always  said  so." 

"I  know;  but  it's  the  best  I  have.  Does  it  matter 
so  much  ? " 

"  Matter  ! "  Amy  mourned  over  the  offending  detail 
with    artistic    concern.      "There's    nothing    I'm    so 
particular    about.      A    drop-skirt    like    this    would 
spoil  a  Paquin    gown,  or    a  Redfern,  let  alone  a  - 
a—" 

"  Rusty  black  net  ? "  Jean  prompted.     "  Aren't  you 


THE   CRUCIBLE  239 

forgetting  my  wonderful  shoulders  ?  Nobody  is  to 
look  at  anything  else,  you  know !" 

Amy  ignored  the  implication. 

"It  won't  be  so  funny  if  they  do,"  she  reproved. 
"I  do  wish  I  had  something  to  lend  you,  but  since  I 
left  the  store,  I  never  wear  black.  Fred  likes  lively 
colors.  Isn't  there  anything  at  the  studio  you  could 
borrow  ?" 

There  was,  though  Jean  forbore  to  mention  it.  As 
certain  as  her  need,  was  the  knowledge  that  from  the 
third  right-hand  hook  of  the  studio  wardrobe  de- 
pended its  easy  satisfaction.  She  had  told  Atwood 
with  almost  rebuking  emphasis  that  she  must  wear 
her  own  clothes,  but  in  the  befogging  nervousness 
which  the  bugaboo  of  the  dinner  wrought,  the  tempta- 
tion to  make  use  of  at  least  this  discarded  trifle  of 
Mrs.  Van  Ostade's  plenty  assailed  her  with  waxing 
strength,  till  success  or  failure  seemed  to  hang  on  her 
decision.  The  garment  had  its  individuality,  like 
most  things  belonging  to  Julie,  who,  Atwood  said, 
had  her  own  notions  of  design;  but  Jean  told  herself 
that  it  need  not  be  flaunted. 

To  assure  herself  whether,  after  all,  she  might  not 
be  overrating  its  importance,  she  wore  the  silken  lure 
home  under  her  street-dress  the  evening  of  the  dinner. 
This  candid  course  was  most  efficacious.  In  the 
light  of  the  miracle  it  worked,  consistency  troubled 
her  no  more  than  Amy.  Its  influence  transcended  the 
material;  it  fortified  her  courage;  and  when  at  last 
the  admiring  maid  brought  word  that  a  gentleman 


240  THE   CRUCIBLE 

waited  below,  she  gave  a  final  glance  mirrorward, 
which  was  almost  optimistic,  and  went  down  for 
Craig's  verdict  with  starry  eyes. 

No  faintest  premonition  prepared  her  to  confront 
in  the  dim-lit  room,  not  Craig,  but  Paul. 

The  dentist  took  an  uncertain  step  toward  her. 

"I  had  to  come,  Jean,"  he  said  defensively. 
"There  hasn't  been  a  more  miserable  cuss  in  the  city. 
I —  Then,  seeing  her  clearly  under  the  flare 
of  the  gas-burner  nearest  the  door,  which  her  hand 
sought  instantly,  he  stood  a  moment,  wide-eyed  and 
mute,  in  fascinated  survey  of  her  unwonted  garb. 
No  tribute  to  its  effectiveness  could  be  more  sincere. 
As  if  it  spoke  for  her  like  a  symbol,  answering  a  ques- 
tion he  could  no  longer  put,  he  made  a  simple  ges- 
ture of  renunciation,  the  pathos  and  dignity  of  which 
sounded  the  very  well-springs  of  her  pity.  "  Excuse 
me  for  butting  in,"  he  added.  "  I  can  see  now  it  was 
no  use." 

Jean  put  out  her  hand.  The  mystery  of  her  dead 
affection  —  she  could  not  call  it  love  —  for  this  man 
was  never  more  baffling.  The  woman  she  was  seemed 
as  far  removed  from  her  who  pledged  herself  to  Paul, 
as  that  girl  in  turn  was  remote  from  the  mutinous  rebel 
of  Cottage  No.  6 ;  but  the  dentist's  gesture,  his  words, 
his  shabbiness  —  so  different  from  the  half-dandified 
neatness  of  old  —  touched  her  where  a  direct  ap- 
peal to  their  common  past  would  have  found  her 
flint. 

"It  was  no  use  in  the  way  you  mean,  Paul,"  she 


THE   CRUCIBLE  241 

said  gently.  "But  sit  down.  I  am  sorry  if  you  have 
been  unhappy." 

Whereupon  an  inconceivably  subdued  Paul  Bart- 
lett  sat  down  beside  her  and  with  a  gush  of  mingled 
self-pity  and  remorse  poured  the  tale  of  his  manifold 
sorrows  into  an  absorbed  and  —  her  wrongs,  her  sex 
considered  —  sympathetic  ear.  Life  had  fared  ill 
with  the  dentist.  He  had  not  been  able,  he  said,  to 
swing  the  enterprise  of  the  new  office  quite  as  he  had 
hoped.  The  location  was  all  right,  the  equipment 
was  all  right,  but  for  some  reason,  perhaps  the  elec- 
tion-time flurry,  perhaps  because  he  himself  may  not 
have  pushed  things  as  he  did  when  feeling  quite  up 
to  par,  patients  had  not  flocked  his  way.  The  hell 
he  had  been  through !  To  know  there  wasn't  a 
more  up-to-date  office  in  Harlem,  not  one  that  paid  a 
stiffer  rent,  and  yet,  for  a  month,  six  weeks,  two 
months,  to  see  almost  nobody  drift  in  except  "shop- 
pers"—  Jean  would  remember  their  sort!  —  who 
haggled  over  dinkey  little  jobs  such  as  amalgam  fill- 
ings, or  beat  him  down  on  a  cheap  plate  to  a  figure 
that  hardly  paid  a  man  to  fire  up  his  vulcanizer  — 
well,  he'd  sooner  handle  a  pick  and  shovel  than  go 
through  that  again. 

"But  it's  better  now  ?"   she  asked. 

"Shouldn't  have]showed  my  face  here  if  it  wasn't," 
Paul  retorted,  with  a  flicker  of  his  old  spirit.  "The 
luck  changed  just  when  I'd  about  decided  to  go  back 
to  Grimes.  Yes,  I'm  doing  so-so.  Nothing  record- 
breaking,  but  I'm  out  of  debt." 


242  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"I'm  very  glad." 

"Thanks,"  he  said  gratefully.  "You've  no  call 
to  be,  God  knows !  When  I  think  —  but  what's 
the  good  ?  I've  thought  till  I'm  half  crazy.  Just  to 
look  into  the  little  place  at  the  Lorna  Doone  queers 
a  whole  week  for  me.  It  stands  about  as  it  did,  Jean. 
All  the  time  the  pinch  was  hardest,  I  had  to  carry  the 
flat,  too  —  empty.  I  couldn't  live  there,  and  nobody 
else  wanted  it.  I  missed  my  chance  to  clear  out  when 
the  building  changed  hands  —  I  tumbled  just  too 
late,  not  being  on  the  spot.  The  new  owners  would 
make  trouble,  and  I've  had  trouble  enough.  I  just 
cant  sell  the  things  —  leastways  some  of  them  — 
and  I  thought  perhaps  you  —  they're  really  yours, 
you  know  —  perhaps  you  —  No  ?  Well,  I  don't 
blame  you.  If  folks  were  only  living  there,  I  guess 
I'd  feel  different.  I  would  sublet  for  a  song." 

Amy's  consuming  desire  flashed  into  Jean's  mind 
to  relieve  a  situation  too  tense  for  long  endurance,  and 
Paul  thankfully  made  note  of  the  drummer's  address. 
This  mechanical  act  seemed  to  put  a  period  to  their 
meeting  and  both  rose;  but  although  they  shook 
hands  again,  and  exchanged  commonplaces  concern- 
ing neither  knew  what,  the  man  continued  to  imprison 
her  fingers  in  an  awkward  solemnity  which,  more 
sharply  than  words,  conveyed  his  sense  of  a  bitter, 
yet  just,  finality. 

So  occupied,  Atwood's  hurried  entrance  found 
them. 

"I'm  late,  very  late,"  he  said  from  the  hall,  at  first 


THE   CRUCIBLE  243 

seeing  only  Jean;  "but  the  cab-horse  looks  prom- 
ising, and  the  driver  says  —  I  beg  your  pardon!" 

Acutely  conscious  of  a  burning  flush,  which  Paul's 
red-hot  confusion  answered  like  an  afterglow,  Jean 
made  the  presentation. 

"  Bartlett  —  not  Barclay,"  Paul  corrected  Atwood's 
murmured  greeting,  with  the  footless  particularity 
of  the  embarrassed. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Atwood  again. 

"Often  mixed,  those  two  names,  Bartlett  and  Bar- 
clay," babbled  the  dentist,  with  desperate  stage 
laughter.  "  Half  the  people  who  come  to  my  office 
call  me  Barclay.  Feel  sometimes  as  if  it  must  be 
Barclay  after  all.  Dare  say  Barclay  is  as  good  a 
name  —  that  is  — " 

Jean  stilled  the  parrot  cry  with  an  apology  for  run- 
ning off,  and  the  trio  passed  down  the  steps  together. 
Atwood  glanced  back  curiously  as  they  whipped 
away. 

"Who  is  Mr.  Bartlett  —  not  Barclay  ?"  he  smiled. 

"A  dentist  I  knew  when  I  worked  for  the  Acme 
Company,"  she  answered,  and  then,  with  a  generous 
impulse  added,  "  He  was  very  kind  to  me  once  when 
I  needed  kindness." 

"So?"  Atwood's  interest  livened.  "Then  I  have 
double  reason  not  to  forget  his  name.  I  don't  dare 
picture  what  Julie's  thinking,"  he  went  on,  peering 
at  a  jeweller's  street-clock.  "We're  undeniably 
late.  But  I  have  the  best  excuse  in  the  world. 
Guess!" 


244  THE   CRUCIBLE 

Jean  tried,  but  found  her  wits  distraught  between 
the  scene  just  past  and  the  trial  to  come. 

"No;   tell  me,"  she  entreated. 

He  drew  a  full  exultant  breath. 

"It's  the  Joyce-Reeves  commission,"  he  said.  "I 
received  the  order  to-night." 


XXIII 

THEY  were  not  unpardonably  late,  yet  were  tardy 
enough  to  render  their  coming  conspicuous  to  what 
seemed  to  Jean  an  ultramodish  company  which  peo- 
pled not  only  Mrs.  Van  Ostade's  drawing-room,  but 
the  connecting  music-room  and  library  as  well. 

Julie,  her  dark  good  looks  set  off  by  yellow,  met 
them  with  observant  eyes,  nodded  "Yes,  Craig;  I 
know"  to  Atwood's  great  news,  murmured  a  conven- 
tional word  of  regret  to  Jean  that  both  their  calls 
should  have  been  fruitless,  made  two  or  three  intro- 
ductions to  those  who  chanced  nearest,  and  with  the 
lift  of  an  eyelid  set  in  motion  the  mechanism  of  a 
statuesque  butler;  whereupon  Jean  found  herself 
hazily  translated  to  her  place  at  table  between  a  blond 
giant,  who  took  her  in,  and  a  shadowy-eyed  person 
with  a  pointed  beard,  who  languidly  quoted  some- 
thing resembling  poetry  about  what  he  called  the 
tinted  symphony  of  Mrs.  Van  Ostade's  candle-light. 

"How  clever!"  said  Jean,  at  a  venture,  and  wel- 
comed the  voice  of  her  less  ethereal  neighbor. 

"Corking  race,"  remarked  the  giant,  beaming  at 
her  over  the  rim  of  his  cocktail. 

This  was  concrete,  if  indefinite. 

"You  mean—" 

245 


246  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"Yesterday  —  France.  Wonderful!  Gummiest 
kind  of  course  —  two  days'  hard  rainfall,  you  know. 
I've  been  saying  'I  told  you  so'  all  day.  Didn't 
surprise  me  in  the  least.  I  knew  her,  d'ye  see,  I 
knew  her." 

Jean  looked  as  intelligent  as  she  could,  and  hoped 
for  a  clew.  The  big  man  checked  his  elliptical  re- 
marks altogether,  however,  and,  still  beaming, 
awaited  her  profound  response. 

"Is,  she  French?"  she  hazarded,  jumping  at  an 
inference. 

"But  it  was  a  man  won.  The  sporting  duchess, 
you  mean,  drew  out." 

"I'm  speaking  of  the  horse,"  Jean  struggled. 

"Horse!  What  horse?"  ejaculated  the  giant. 
"I'm  talking  automobiles." 

She  judged  frankness  best. 

"There  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  confess,"  she  said. 
"I  know  nothing  about  automobiles.  I  never  set 
foot  in  one  in  my  life." 

Her  companion  wagged  a  large  reproachful  finger. 

"Don't  string  me,"  he  begged.  "Didn't  Julie 
Van  Ostade  put  you  up  to  this  ?  I  know  I'm  auto- 
mad  and  an  easy  mark,  but  —  Jove  !  I  believe  you're 
serious.  Why,  it's  —  it's  incredible !  Just  think 
a  bit.  You  must  have  been  in  one  of  those  piffling 
little  runabouts?" 

"Never." 

"Well,  then,  a  cab  —  an  electric  cab  ?" 

"Not  even  a  'bus." 


THE   CRUCIBLE  247 

He  shook  his  head  solemnly  and  besought  the  atten- 
tion of  the  petite  guest  in  mauve  on  his  left. 

"What  do  you  think?"  Jean  heard  him  begin. 
"Miss  Fanshaw  here  — 

Then  the  shadowy-eyed  seized  his  chance. 

"I  hail  a  kindred  spirit,"  he  confided  softly.  "To 
me  the  automobile  is  the  most  hideous,  blatant  fact 
of  a  prosaic  age.  Its  coarsening  pleasures  are  for 
the  few;  its  brutal  sins  against  life's  meager  poetry 
touch  the  unprivileged  millions." 

"Rot !"  cut  in  the  giant,  whose  hearing  was  excel- 
lent. "The  motor  is  everybody's  servant.  As  for 
poetry,  man  alive  !  you  would  never  talk  such  drool 
again  if  you  could  see  a  road-race  as  the  man  in  the 
car  sees  it.  Poetry!  It's  an  epic!"  Wherewith  he 
launched  into  terse  description,  jerky  like  the  voice  of 
his  machine  and  bestrewn  with  weird  technicalities, 
but  stirring  and  roughly  eloquent  of  a  full-blooded 
joy  in  life. 

While  the  battle  raged  over  her  —  for  the  man  with 
the  pointed  beard  showed  unexpected  mettle  — 
Jean  evolved  a  working  theory  as  to  the  uses  of  un- 
familiar forks  and  crystal,  and  took  stock  of  her 
other  fellow-guests.  It  was  now,  with  a  start  of 
pleasure,  that  she  first  met  the  eye  of  MacGregor, 
whom  she  had  overlooked  in  the  hurry  of  their  late 
arrival.  His  smile  was  encouraging,  as  if  he  divined 
her  difficulties,  and  she  took  a  comfort  in  his  presence, 
which  Atwood's,  for  once,  failed  to  inspire. 

Craig   seemed   vastly   remote.     He   was   in    high 


248  THE   CRUCIBLE 

spirits  and  talking  eagerly  to  an  odd-looking  girl  with 
a  remarkable  pallor  that  brought  out  the  vivid  scarlet 
of  her  little  mouth  and  the  no  less  striking  luster  of 
her  raven  hair,  which  she  wore  low  over  the  ears  after 
a  fashion  Jean  associated  with  something  literary 
or  theatrical.  She  caught  a  word  or  two  of  their 
conversation,  and  it  overshot  her  head,  though  the 
talk  at  MacGregor's  Oasis  had  acquainted  her  with 
certain  labels  for  uncertain  quantities  known  as 
Nietzsche  and  George  Bernard  Shaw.  She  perceived 
a  sophisticated  corner  of  Atwood's  mind,  hitherto  un- 
suspected, so  deceptive  was  his  boyish  manner;  and 
the  anaemic  girl,  juggling  the  Superman  with  offhand 
ease,  became  clothed  with  piquant  interest.  She 
wondered  who  she  was,  what  Atwood  saw  in  her, 
and  whether  they  knew  each  other  well. 

Of  his  own  accord  her  neighbor  with  the  beard 
enlightened  her. 

"Pictorial,  isn't  she?"  he  said.  " Preraphaelite, 
almost,  as  to  features ;  hair  Cleo  de  Merode.  I  hope 
Mrs.  Van  Ostade  pulls  the  match  off.  They're 
so  well  suited ;  clever,  both  of  them,  and  in  different 
ways.  Then,  her  money.  That  is  a  consideration." 

"Is  it?"   groped  Jean. 

"  Rather  !  Wealthy  in  her  own  name,  you  know, 
and  virtually  sure  of  her  uncle's  fortune.  They're 
very  soundly  invested,  the  Hepworth  millions.  But 
it's  the  psychological  phase  of  it  that  interests  me. 
I'm  curious  to  see  what  effect  she'll  have  upon  his 
work.  For  the  artistic  temperament  marriage  is 
twice  a  lottery.  I've  never  dared  risk  it  myself." 


THE   CRUCIBLE  249 

His  tone  offered  confidences,  but  Jean  found  his 
celibacy  of  slight  interest  beside  Miss  Hepworth's. 
She  was  conscious  that  he  was  permitting  her  glimpses 
into  the  lone  sanctities  of  what  he  termed  his  priest- 
hood, as  she  was  aware  of  a  whir  and  rush  of  mo- 
tor-maniacal anecdote  on  her  other  side,  and  of  a 
ceaseless  coming  and  going  of  courses  amidst  the  gen- 
erally pervasive  fog  of  conversation.  She  made  the 
automatic  responses  which  seemed  all  her  immediate 
fellow-guests  required  of  her,  and  masked  her  face 
with  a  smile,  into  which  she  threw  more  spontaneity 
after  the  bearded  one  said  it  suggested  Mona  Lisa's 
and  belied  her  glorious  youth. 

"For  she  is  'older  than  the  rocks  among  which  she 
sits,'"  he  quoted.  "You  remember  Pater's  famous 
interpretation  ?" 

Jean  knew  neither  quotation  nor  writer,  but  she 
was  familiar  with  Leonardo's  picture  and  turned  the 
personality  with  a  neutral  question,  which  served  the 
man  as  a  spring-board  for  fresh  verbal  acrobatics, 
amusing  to  him  and  restful  for  her.  He  was  shrewder 
than  she  had  thought.  In  truth,  she  felt  both  young 
and  old;  young,  if  this  dismal  futility  could  be  the 
flower  of  much  living;  old,  if  by  chance  it  should  be, 
as  she  questioned,  merely  puerile. 

She  sighed  for  the  dinner's  end,  but  when  it  came 
and  the  women,  following  a  custom  she  had  read 
about  without  dreaming  she  should  yet  encounter  it, 
left  the  men  behind,  she  sighed  to  be  back  with  her 
loquacious  seat-mates,  talk  what  jargon  they  would. 


250  THE   CRUCIBLE 

Her  sex  imposed  no  conversational  burden  upon  any 
one  here.  She  fitted  naturally  into  none  of  the  little 
clusters  into  which  the  rustling  file  dissolved;  and, 
after  some  aimless  coasting  among  these  groups  where 
women  to  whom  she  had  been  presented  smiled  upon 
her  vaguely  and  chattered  of  intimacies  and  happen- 
ings peculiarly  their  own,  she  cut  adrift  altogether 
and  grounded  with  feigned  absorption  by  a  cabinet 
of  Chinese  lacquer.  If  Julie  meant  her  kindness,  she 
told  a  remarkable  golden  dragon,  this  was  the  time 
to  show  it,  but  her  hostess  remained  invisible,  and 
the  dragon's  gaze,  though  sympathetic,  seemed  pres- 
ently to  suggest  that  the  social  possibilities  of  lacquer 
had  their  limits.  In  this  crisis,  she  made  a  lucky 
find  of  a  portfolio  of  Craig's  sketches,  none  of  which 
she  had  ever  seen. 

While  turning  these  drawings,  she  was  approached 
by  some  one,  and,  looking  up  with  the  expectation  of 
seeing  Mrs.  Van  Ostade,  met  instead  the  gaze  of  a 
very  old  and  excessively  wrinkled  lady,  who,  without 
tedious  formalities,  calmly  possessed  herself  of  the 
sketch  Jean  had  in  hand. 

"They're  amazingly  deft,"  she  said,  after  a  mo- 
ment. "Even  the  academic  things  have  their 
charm.  Take  this  charcoal,  for  instance,"  she  went 
on,  selecting  another  drawing.  "It's  not  the  stereo- 
typed Julien  study  in  the  least.  They  couldn't 
extinguish  the  boy's  individuality.  Somewhere  here 
there  is  another  still  better." 

"You  mean  this,  don't  you  ?"   Jean  asked,  delving 


THE   CRUCIBLE  251 

into  the  portfolio  for  a  bold  rendering  of  a  human 
back. 

"Ha!"  said  the  old  lady,  staring.  "Of  course  I 
do.  But  what  made  you  think  so  ?" 

"It  was  the  only  one  of  the  Julien  studies  you  could 
mean,"  returned  Jean,  promptly.  "He  did  not  draw 
like  this  till  the  year  he  exhibited." 

The  explosive  "Ha!"  was  repeated,  and  the  girl 
felt  herself  thoroughly  assayed  by  the  shrewd  old 
eyes. 

"You  are  a  close  student  of  Mr.  Atwood,  my  dear," 
came  dryly.  "Perhaps  you  are  a  critic  of  con- 
temporary art  ?" 

Jean  reddened,  but,  surprising  the  twinkle  behind 
the  sarcasm,  laughed. 

"Is  it  probable?"    she  asked. 

"It's  possible.  Half  the  celebrities  I  meet  seem 
young  enough  to  be  my  grandchildren.  But  you  are 
telling  me  nothing.  Are  you  one  of  Julie  Van  Os- 
tade's  discoveries  ?  She  collects  geniuses,  you  know. 
What  is  your  name  ?" 

Jean  told  her. 

"It  means  nothing,  you  see,"  she  smiled.  "I  am 
only  a  student." 

"Of  painting?" 

"No;   sculpture." 

"Are  you!  But  you  look  original.  Where  are 
you  at  work  ?  I  hope  you  don't  mind  my  questions  ? 
I'm  an  inquisitive  old  person." 

Jean  named  her  school  and  mentioned  Richter. 


252  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"  But  I  have  accomplished  nothing  yet,"  she  added. 

"Ha!"  said  the  old  lady.  "Then  it's  time  you 
did.  I  shall  ask  Richter  about  it.  If  I  forget  your 
name,  I'll  describe  your  eyes.  There  is  something 
singularly  familiar  about  your  eyes." 

The  men  and  Mrs.  Van  Ostade  made  a  simultane- 
ous entrance,  and  the  latter  at  once  bore  down  on 
Jean's  catechist. 

"  Peroni  will  sing,"  she  announced  with  a  note  of 
triumph.  "He  volunteered  as  a  mark  of  respect  to 
you." 

"Really  !"  The  octogenarian's  smile  was  extraor- 
dinarily expressive.  "Yet  they  call  him  merce- 
nary." 

The  opening  bar  of  an  accompaniment  issued  from 
the  music-room,  and  Jean  joined  the  drift  toward  the 
piano.  She  wondered  who  this  sprightly  personage 
might  be  for  whom  the  spoiled  tenor  volunteered, 
and  then,  in  the  magic  of  his  voice,  forgot  to  wonder. 

In  the  babel  following  the  hush,  MacGregor  leaned 
over  her  chair. 

"So  the  irrepressible  conflict  is  on?"  he  greeted 
her. 

Jean's  welcome  was  whole-hearted. 

"Craig  has  told  you  ?"   she  said  softly. 

"Yesterday.  I  wish  you  both  all  the  usual  things. 
I  ought  to  have  seen  it  from  the  first,  I  suppose,  but 
as  a  matter  of  fact  I  did  not.  Certainly  I  never  fig- 
ured you  in  the  lists  when  I  spoke  of  the  battle  royal. 
Any  war  news  ?" 


THE   CRUCIBLE  253 

"We  have  exchanged  calls  without  meeting." 

"Preliminary  skirmishes." 

"Next  came  the  dinner-invitation.  Not  exactly 
a  war  measure,  should  you  say  ?" 

"Knowing  Julie,  yes.  I  should  call  it  the  first 
engagement." 

Jean  perceived  his  military  metaphor  was  but  a 
thin  disguise  for  a  serious  opinion. 

"And  the  victor?"    she  said. 

"Apparently  yourself." 

"I  don't  feel  especially  victorious,"  she  said,  a  little 
wistfully.  "What  makes  you  think  the  battle  is  on  ? 
Oh,  but  we  must  not  talk  this  way  here,"  she  imme- 
diately added.  "We've  eaten  her  salt." 

"What  if  the  salt  is  an  ambush?"  queried  Mac- 
Gregor.  "  Besides,  I  never  pretended  to  be  a  gentle- 
man. Look  over  this  menagerie  carefully,  guileless 
child !  Do  you  suppose  Julie  usually  selects  her 
dinner-guests  after  this  grab-bag  fashion  ?  Not  to 
my  knowledge.  She  loathes  big  dinners,  so  she  has 
told  me.  It's  her  study  and  pride  to  bring  together 
people  of  like  tastes.  The  seating  of  a  dinner-party 
is  to  her  like  a  nice  problem  at  chess.  Do  you  think 
it  a  mere  chance  shuffle  that  settled  your  destiny  at 
table  ?  Do  you  know  one  automobile  from  another  ?" 

"No." 

"Of  course  not.  And  half  the  time  you  hadn't  a 
glimmer  of  a  notion  what  the  decadent  poet  with  the 
Vandyck  beard  was  driving  at?" 

"More  than  half." 


254  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"Neither  should  I.  A  steady  diet  of  the  hash  he 
serves  up  to  women's  clubs  would  land  me  in  a  padded 
cell.  But  perhaps  the  general  talk  amused  you  ?" 

"I  could  not  make  much  of  it,"  she  admitted. 

"Sensible  girl !  Neither  could  most  of  the  talkers. 
But  —  here  was  where  you  scored  a  point  —  you 
looked  as  if  you  did.  The  minor  poet  and  the  motor- 
maniac  couldn't  wait  their  turns  to  bore  you.  Then, 
point  number  two,  your  gown.  Logically,  it's  point 
number  one,  and  a  big  point,  too.  I  happened  to  be 
watching  Julie  when  you  arrived.  Yes ;  you  scored." 

Jean  caught  gratefully  at  the  tribute.  She  remem- 
bered that  Craig  had  been  too  preoccupied  with  the 
Joyce-Reeves  commission  to  notice  her  dress,  and 
wondered  whether  the  pictorial  girl's  aesthetic  draper- 
ies had  drawn  his  praise.  She  was  shy  of  mentioning 
Miss  Hepworth  to  MacGregor;  he  might  think  her 
jealous.  Nor  did  he  speak  her  name,  though  Craig 
and  his  dinner-partner,  again  in  animated  converse, 
were  in  plain  view  from  their  own  station.  Jean 
guessed  that  he  trusted  her  instinct  to  light  readily 
on  the  significance  of  this  factor  in  Mrs.  Van  Ostade's 
strategy. 

"  Lastly,"  he  enumerated,"  you  bagged  Mrs.  Joyce- 
Reeves." 

"What!  The  woman  who  talked  to  me  about 
Craig?" 

"You're  surprised  to  find  her  here  ?  So  was  Julie. 
She  invited  herself.  Julie  met  her  somewhere  this 
afternoon  and  mentioned  that  she  was  giving  a  dinner. 


She  was  scoring. 


THE   CRUCIBLE  255 

Mrs.  Joyce-Reeves  asked  questions  —  you  discovered 
that  trait  of  hers,  probably  —  and  said  she'd  be  punc- 
tual. Quite  royal,  isn't  she  ?  She  is  strong  enough 
to  be  as  eccentric  as  she  pleases.  So  Craig  was  your 
topic  ?  Then  she  had  your  secret  out  of  you,  mark 
my  word.  How  did  you  fall  in  with  her  ?" 

"She  came  to  me  while  I  was  turning  over  some  of 
Craig's  sketches." 

"  Pretending  to  enjoy  yourself,  but  really  feeling  as 
lonesome  as  Robinson  Crusoe  ?" 

"Almost." 

"That  is  very  likely  why  she  spoke  to  you.  She 
does  that  sort  of  thing,  they  say.  It's  one  of  her  curi- 
ous eccentricities.  I  think  your  motor-maniac  is 
edging  this  way,"  he  added.  "Yes,  and  your  poet, 
too.  Can  it  be  that  you  are  going  to  score  again!" 

With  the  three  men  grouped  about  her  chair, 
Jean  had  an  intoxicating  suspicion  that  she  was  scor- 
ing, provided  MacGregor's  embattled  theory  held; 
and  when  Mrs.  Van  Ostade  herself  entered  the  scene 
just  as  the  blond  giant,  under  fire  from  the  Vandyck 
beard,  was  begging  her  to  set  a  day  for  her  initiation 
into  the  joys  of  motoring,  a  certain  rigidity  in  Julie's 
smile  convinced  her  that  MacGregor  was  right.  At- 
wood's  opportune  arrival  in  his  sister's  wake  charged 
the  situation,  she  felt,  with  the  last  requisite  of  drama. 
But  Mrs.  Van  Ostade's  eye  was  restless,  however  stac- 
cato her  smile,  and  Jean,  conscious,  though  no  longer 
unhappy  under  its  regard,  reflected  that  even  without 
its  terrible  lorgnon  it  had  its  power.  Then,  even  as 


256  THE   CRUCIBLE 

she  framed  the  thought,  she  beheld  its  sudden  con- 
centration, tracked  its  cause,  and  caught  its  glittering 
rebound  from  the  nether  edge  of  her  too  tempestuous 
petticoat.  For  an  instant  the  brown  eyes  braved  the 
black,  then  struck  their  colors,  conquered. 

Without  a  word  Julie  Van  Ostade  had  shouted, 
"Cast-off  clothes  !"  louder  than  the  raucous  dealers 
of  the  curb. 

Luckily,  the  ghastly  business  was  not  prolonged. 
The  leave-takings  began  at  once,  and  Jean  passed  out 
among  the  first.  Some  hitch  in  the  carriage  arrange- 
ments delayed  her  a  moment  in  the  vestibule,  how- 
ever, and  MacGregor  came  by. 

"Did  something  happen  back  there?"  he  asked 
bluntly.  "I  don't  think  the  others  noticed  anything; 
I  didn't  grasp  anything  tangible  myself;  but  still  — 
are  the  honors  doubtful,  after  all  ? " 

Jean  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  she  answered  grimly;  "not  doubtful  in  the 
least.  She  won." 

Then  Craig  put  her  in  the  coupe,  and  asked  if 
it  had  not  been  a  jolly  evening. 

"It  was  a  mixed  crowd  for  Julie,"  he  said,  "but  it 
seems  she  wanted  to  show  you  all  sorts.  You  see 
how  absurd  it  was  to  dread  coming.  Every  time  I  laid 
eyes  on  you,  you  were  holding  your  own.  Virginia 
Hepworth  asked  who  you  were.  Did  you  notice  her  ? 
I  want  you  to  know  her.  You  mightn't  think  it 
at  first  blush,  but  she's  very  stimulating;  at  least 
I  always  find  her  so.  We  had  a  famous  powwow. 


THE  CRUCIBLE  257 

I  should  like  to  paint  her  sometime  against  a  sumptu- 
ous background.  What  did  you  think  of  her  hair  ?" 

Jean's  response  was  incoherent.  Then  an  illu- 
minated turning  brought  her  face  sharply  from  the 
shadows. 

"Jean!"  he  cried.  "What  is  it?  What's 
wrong  ?" 

"  Myself.  We  had  best  face  it  —  face  it  now ; 
better  now  than  later.  I  am  only  a  drag  upon  you,  a 
handicap  —  not  the  kind  of  woman  you  should 
marry.  You  must  marry  a  stim  —  stim  —  stimulus." 

Atwood  drew  her  into  his  arms. 

"And  so  I  shall,"  he  answered,  "so  I  shall  the  first 
minute  she'll  let  me.  To-night  even !  Do  you 
understand  me,  Jean  ?  Why  shouldn't  it  be  to- 
night ?  What  do  you  say?" 

Jean  said  nothing.  What  folly  she  had  uttered ! 
Give  him  up !  His  mere  touch  exorcised  that  mad- 
ness. All  the  primitive  woman  in  her  revolted  from 
the  sacrifice.  He  was  hers  —  hers !  Could  that 
pale  creature  love  him  as  she  loved  him  ?  Could 
Julie  love  him  as  she  loved  him  ?  Julie !  A  gust  of 
passion  shook  her;  part  anger  with  herself  for  the 
weakness  to  which  she  had  stooped,  part  hot  resent- 
ment against  this  superior  being  who  set  traps  for  her 
inexperience.  For  it  was  a  trap,  that  dinner  !  Mac- 
Gregor  was  wholly  right.  There  was  war  between 
them ;  the  night  had  witnessed  a  battle.  What  was 
it  all  but  a  manoeuvre  to  humble  her  before  her  lover, 
prove  her  unfitness,  alienate  his  love  ? 


258  THE   CRUCIBLE 

Then  Craig's  words  took  on  a  meaning. 

"I'm  in  earnest,"  he  was  saying.  "It  isn't  a  spur- 
of-the-moment  idea.  These  three  days  I've  had  it  in 
mind  to  ask  you  to  slip  off  with  me  quietly  and  with- 
out fuss.  We've  never  been  conventional,  you  and  I. 
Why  should  we  begin  now  ?  Nothing  could  be 
simpler.  It  is  early  yet  —  little  more  than  ten  o'clock. 
I'll  drop  you  in  Irving  Place  long  enough  for  you  to 
change  your  dress  and  pack  a  bag.  Meanwhile  I 
can  pick  up  my  own  and  make  sure  of  the  clergyman. 
That  part  is  easy,  too.  I'll  ask  a  friend  of  mine  who 
lives  not  five  blocks  off.  His  wife  and  sister  will  be 
our  witnesses.  Then  the  midnight  train  for  Boston 
and  a  honeymoon  in  some  coast  village." 

"But  the  portrait  ?"   she  wavered. 

"The  best  of  reasons.  The  sensible  thing  is  to 
marry  before  I  begin  work.  Don't  hunt  for  reasons 
against  it,  dear.  None  of  them  count.  It's  our  wed- 
ding, not  Mrs.  Grundy's.  We'll  let  her  know  by  one 
of  the  morning  papers,  if  there's  time  to  give  notice 
on  our  way  to  the  train.  Julie  I'll  wire." 

A  blithe  vision  of  Julie  digesting  her  telegram  flitted 
across  Jean's  imagination  with  an  irresistible  appeal. 

"I'll  need  half  an  hour,  Craig,"  she  said,  as  the 
carriage  halted. 


XXIV 

JULIE'S  congratulations  reached  them  three  days 
later  at  the  decayed  seaport,  an  hour's  run  out  of 
Boston,  which  they  had  chosen  at  laughing  haphazard 
in  their  flight.  It  was  a  skillful  piece  of  literature. 
Ostensibly  for  both,  its  real  message  was  for  the  errant 
Craig.  There  were  delicate  allusions  to  their  close 
companionship  of  years,  so  precious  to  her.  To  him, 
a  man,  it  had  of  course  meant  less.  A  woman's  devo- 
tion —  but  she  would  not  weary  him  with  protesta- 
tions. What  she  had  been,  she  would  always  be. 
She  bore  him  no  unkindness  for  shutting  her  out  at 
the  momentous  hour;  she  knew  marriage  would  raise 
no  future  barrier.  That  was  all. 

"  Dear  old  Julie  ! "  said  Atwood.  "  It  did  cut  her/' 
He  smoked  for  a  pensive  interval,  gazing  out  from 
their  balcony  over  the  rotting  hulks  of  a  vanished 
trade.  "She's  been  my  right  hand  almost,"  he  went 
on  presently.  "Not  many  endearments  between  us 
-  surface  tendernesses.  Some  people  think  her 
hard,  but  she's  as  stanch  as  stanch.  Did  I  tell  you 
how  she  nursed  me  through  typhoid  ?" 

"Yes." 

"That  showed!  Or  take  our  Irving  Place  days. 
Many  a  play  or  concert  she  gave  up  for  me  —  and 

259 


260  THE  CRUCIBLE 

gowns !  She  believed  in  me  from  the  first.  I  can't 
forget  that.  What  nonsense  to  talk  of  marriage  shut- 
ting her  out !  We  must  not  let  her  feel  that  way, 
Jean." 

"No,"  said  the  wife ;  for  to  such  chanty  toward  the 
beaten  enemy  had  she  already  come. 

Indeed,  her  happiness  had  softened  her  to  a  point 
where  she  questioned  whether  MacGregor  did  Julie 
complete  justice.  He  was  a  man  of  strong  prejudices, 
set,  dogmatic;  even,  she  suspected,  a  man  with  a 
grievance,  for  Craig  now  told  her  that  something  in 
the  nature  of  an  engagement  had  once  existed  be- 
tween his  sister  and  his  friend.  Might  not  Atwood's 
insight  be  the  truer  ?  She  began  to  put  herself  in 
Julie's  place,  and  then,  without  much  difficulty, 
saw  herself  acting  Julie's  part.  Ambitious  for  Craig, 
scheming  for  him  always,  self-sacrificing  if  need  arose, 
why  should  she  not  resent  his  marriage  to  a  nobody 
whom  she  knew  only  as  a  model  ? 

This  flooding  charity  likewise  embraced  Mrs.  Fan- 
shaw.  Her  mother's  chronicles  of  the  small  beer  of 
Shawnee  Springs  had  continued  with  the  punctuality 
of  tides.  The  weekly  letter  seemed  to  present  itself 
to  her  mind  as  an  imperative  duty,  like  the  Wednes- 
day prayer-meeting,  Saturday's  cleaning,  or  church- 
going  Sunday.  Duty  bulked  less  prominently  in 
Jean's  view  of  it,  but  she  had  answered,  desultorily 
at  first,  and  then  by  habit,  almost  with  her  mother's 
regularity.  Yet  she  had  told  little  of  her  life.  The 
changes  from  cloak-factory  to  department  store,  from 


THE  CRUCIBLE  261 

store  to  the  Acme  Company,  and  from  the  dental 
office  to  the  studio  had  been  briefly  announced,  but 
despite  questions,  never  lengthily  explained.  Now 
she  felt  the  need  for  confidence.  Feelings  quickened 
in  her  which  she  supposed  atrophied,  and  under  their 
impulsion  she  wrote  her  mother  for  the  first  time  the 
true  history  of  her  flight  from  the  refuge  and  traced 
the  romance  there  begun  to  its  miraculous  flower. 

A  second  note  from  Mrs.  Van  Ostade,  received  two 
days  later,  voiced  in  the  friendliest  way  her  accept- 
ance of  things  as  they  were.  She  wondered  whether 
they  had  formulated  any  plans  for  living  ?  Craig's 
bachelor  quarters,  she  pointed  out,  were  scarcely 
adaptable  for  housekeeping,  and  surely  they  would  not 
care  for  hotel  life  or  furnished  apartments  ?  What 
they  did  want,  she  assumed,  was  an  apartment  of 
their  own;  that  is,  eventually.  But,  again,  did  they 
at  this  time  of  such  critical  importance  in  Craig's 
work,  want  the  exhausting  labor  of  house-hunting  ? 
Her  suggestion  —  she  was  diffident,  but  oh,  not  luke- 
warm, in  broaching  it  —  was  that  for  the  time  being 
they  make  the  freest  use  of  her  much  too  spacious 
home.  Craig  knew  how  burdensome  the  East 
Fifty-third  Street  place  had  seemed  to  her  since 
Mr.  Van  Ostade's  death;  he  would  remember  how 
often  she  had  urged  his  sharing  it.  Well,  why  not 
now  ?  It  need  be  only  temporary,  if  they  wished ; 
merely  for  the  critical  present.  It  could  easily  be 
arranged  from  a  financial  point  of  view.  When  had 
he  and  she  ever  quarreled  over  money !  And  the 


262  THE   CRUCIBLE 

domestic  problem  was  as  simple.  Wouldn't  they  con- 
sider it  ?  She  meant  literally  consider,  not  decide. 
They  could  decide  on  the  spot,  for  come  to  her  they 
must  on  their  return.  She  claimed  that  of  them  at 
least.  They  should  be  her  guests  first;  then  —  but 
no  more  of  that  now. 

They  read  the  letter  shoulder  to  shoulder;  and  so, 
without  speaking,  sat  for  a  long  moment  after  they 
reached  the  end. 

"Well  ?"  he  said  at  last,  with  a  vain  reading  of  the 
still  face. 

"Well,  Craig?" 

"Bully  of  her,  isn't  it?" 

She  assented. 

"And  practical,"  he  added;  "more  practical  than 
our  air-castles,  I  dare  say." 

A  quick  fear  caught  at  her  throat. 

"Could  you  give  them  up,  Craig?" 

"Give  them  up!"  he  exclaimed.  "Give  up  the 
air-castles  that  we've  planned  while  drifting  in  the 
bay,  roaming  the  fields,  watching  the  sunset  from  this 
dear  window  ?  Never !  We'll  have  our  own  home 
yet.  But  it  does  mean  time,  as  Julie  says,  and  this 
is  a  critical  period  in  my  affairs.  I  feel  it  strongly." 

"And  I." 

"It  would  be  practical,"  he  said  again  thought- 
fully. "We  must  admit  it,  Jean.  How  Julie  seems 
to  set  her  heart  upon  it !  We  owe  her  some  repara- 
tion, I  suppose.  We  might  —  at  least,  till  the  portrait 
is  under  way  ?  Oh,  but  you  must  decide  this  point." 


THE   CRUCIBLE  263 

"No,"  she  answered.  "Your  work  must  decide. 
But  need  we  worry  over  it  now?" 

"Indeed,  we'll  not,"  he  declared.  "When  we 
reach  town  will  be  soon  enough,  as  Julie  says.  Come 
out  for  a  row." 

The  end  of  the  honeymoon  came  sooner  than  they 
thought.  A  third  missive  from  Julie,  laid  before  them 
at  breakfast,  asked  when  she  might  look  for  them, 
and  added  that  Mrs.  Joyce-Reeves  also  wished  en- 
lightenment, as  she  should  soon  be  leaving  town. 
Jean  herself  had  urged  a  prompt  return  for  the  por- 
trait's sake,  but  it  seemingly  needed  his  sister's  spur 
to  prick  Craig  to  action.  Time-tables  immediately 
absorbed  him.  Noon  saw  them  in  Boston  and  the 
evening  in  New  York,  where  a  week  to  a  day,  al- 
most to  an  hour,  from  the  fateful  dinner,  they  passed 
again  through  Mrs.  Van  Ostade's  door. 

Throughout  the  homeward  journey  Jean  had 
shrunk  from  this  moment,  and,  though  he  said 
nothing,  she  divined  that  Craig  himself  dreaded  fac- 
ing Julie.  But  the  actual  meeting  held  no  terrors. 
Mrs.  Van  Ostade  greeted  them  cordially  and  at  once 
led  the  way  to  the  suite  of  rooms  set  apart  for  their  use. 

"This  is  your  particular  corner,"  she  said  at  the 
threshold,  "but  the  whole  house,  remember,  is 
yours." 

"My  books!"  exclaimed  Atwood,  bringing  up 
in  the  little  living  room,  the  charm  of  which  won  Jean 
instantly.  "  My  old  French  prints !  Have  you 
moved  me  bag  and  baggage,  Julie  ?" 


264  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"  I  did  send  to  your  rooms  for  a  few  things  to  make 
you  comfortable.  I  think  you'll  find  the  essentials. 
Had  I  dared,"  she  added,  turning  smilingly  on 
Jean,  "I  should  have  laid  hands  on  your  belongings, 
too." 

They  came  upon  discovery  after  discovery  as  they 
traversed  the  successive  rooms.  Julie's  deft  touch 
showed  itself  everywhere.  Flowers  met  them  on 
every  hand,  and  a  great  bowl  of  bride's  roses  lavished 
its  fragrance  from  Jean's  own  dressing-table.  Her 
face  went  down  among  their  petals. 

"You  don't  mind  ?"  murmured  Julie  at  her  side. 
"I  wanted  to  do  something,  belated  as  it  seems." 

Atwood  caught  up  one  of  the  dainty  trifles  with 
which  the  dressing-table  was  strewn. 

"See,  Jean!"  he  called.  "They're  yours.  This 
is  your  monogram." 

The  remorseful  lump  in  the  girl's  throat  stifled 
speech. 

"You  don't  mind  ?"  Julie  repeated. 

Jean's  response  was  mute,  but  convincing.  At- 
wood went  out  precipitately  and  closed  the  door 
upon  his  retreat. 

Nor  did  Mrs.  Van  Ostade's  thoughtfulness  stop 
at  their  welcome,  or  yet  at  the  almost  imperceptible 
point  where,  the  portrait  deciding,  their  status  as 
guests  changed  to  a  relation  less  transient.  It  con- 
cerned itself  with  the  revision  of  Jean's  wardrobe, 
with  the  more  efFective  dressing  of  her  hair,  with  the 
minutiae  of  calls  and  social  usages,  intricate  beyond 


THE   CRUCIBLE  265 

her  previous  conception,  but  not  lacking  rime  and 
reason  in  her  altered  life. 

Jean  had  no  galling  sense  of  pupilage  —  the  thing 
was  too  delicately  done.  Often  Julie's  lessons  took 
the  sugar-coated  form  of  a  gentle  conspiracy  against 
Craig,  who,  his  sister  confided,  had  in  some  respects 
lapsed  into  a  bohemianism  which  needed  its  correc- 
tive. A  portrait-painter,  she  reasoned,  must  defer 
to  society  more  than  other  artists.  It  was  an  essen- 
tial part  of  his  work  to  acquaint  himself  sympatheti- 
cally with  the  ways  of  the  leisured  class  who  made 
his  profession  commercially  possible.  Mrs.  Joyce- 
Reeves  furnished  a  concrete  illustration.  Even  if 
the  studio  stairs  had  not  proved  too  great  an  obstacle 
for  her  years,  how  enormously  more  to  Craig's  ad- 
vantage it  was  that  he  could  paint  her  here !  Com- 
ing to  this  house,  his  sitter  entered  no  alien  environ- 
ment. She  retained  her  atmosphere. 

"I  make  it  a  point  to  serve  tea  at  their  afternoon 
sittings,"  she  added.  "And  I  try  to  chat  with  her 
whenever  I  can.  It  draws  her  out,  lets  Craig  see  her 
as  she  really  is,  makes  up  for  his  lack  of  knowledge 
of  her  individuality." 

Plastic  as  she  was  under  coaching,  Jean  nursed 
a  healthy  doubt  of  the  wisdom  of  Mrs.  Van  Ostade's 
constant  presence  in  the  billiard-room  over  the  ex- 
tension, which  Atwood  had  chosen  for  the  work  be- 
cause of  its  excellent  north  light.  When  had  he  so 
changed  that  the  chatter  of  a  third  person  helped 
him  to  paint  ? 


266  THE   CRUCIBLE 

Moreover,  Craig  was  openly  dissatisfied. 

"I'm  only  marking  time,"  he  fretted,  as  he  and 
Jean  sat  together  before  the  canvas  after  Mrs.  Joyce- 
Reeves's  third  sitting.  "All  my  preconceived  notions 
were  merely  blind  scents.  I'm  not  getting  at  the 
woman  behind." 

"Yet  it's  wonderfully  like  her,"  she  encouraged, 
studying  the  strong,  mocking  old  face. 

"So  are  her  photographs!  Is  that  portraiture? 
Look  at  their  stuff,"  he  cried,  catching  a  handful  of 
unmounted  prints  from  a  drawer.  "See  what  Hunt- 
ington  did  with  her  girlhood  !  See  Millais's  woman 
of  thirty !  Look  at  Zorn's  great  portrait !  Take 
Sargent's!" 

"But  none  of  them  have  painted  her  old  age,"  she 
reminded.  "You  have  that  advantage." 

"  And  what  have  I  got  out  of  it  ?     Wrinkles  ! " 

Crossing  Madison  Square  a  day  or  two  later,  Jean 
met  MacGregor.  He  had  congratulated  them 
promptly  by  letter  and  sent  them  one  of  his  desert 
studies  which  he  knew  for  a  favorite;  but  she  had 
not  come  face  to  face  with  him  since  her  marriage. 
She  wanted  to  speak  to  him,  for  an  unfulfilled  pen- 
ance hung  over  her,  and  almost  her  first  word  was  a 
confession  of  her  feeling  that  she  had  done  Julie  an 
injustice. 

He  listened  with  a  caustic  stare. 

"Buried  the  hatchet?"   he  remarked. 

"If  there  ever  was  a  hatchet.  I'm  not  so  sure 
there  was.  I  think  we  both  misjudged  her." 


THE   CRUCIBLE  .  267 

"Both,  eh  !"  snorted  MacGregor,  huffily.  "I  dare 
say.  After  all,  I'm  a  raw  young  thing  with  no  expe- 
rience." 

"No;  seriously,"  Jean  laughed. 

He  changed  the  topic. 

"Is  the  portrait  coming  on?"    he  asked. 

"Craig  is  despondent." 

"Good  thing!"  he  ejaculated.  "Stimulates  the 
gray  matter."  His  face  went  awry,  however,  when 
she  mentioned  Julie's  theory  and  practice.  "So 
it's  the  tea-drinking  Mrs.  Joyce-Reeves  our  mighty 
painter  thinks  most  important,"  he  broke  out  acidly, 
after  violent  bottling  of  comment  more  pungent. 
"Fine!  What  insight !  What  originality  !" 

Jean's  eyes  snapped  loyally. 

"Don't  be  disagreeable,"  she  retorted.  "You 
know  Craig  doesn't  think  anything  of  the  kind." 

They  separated  with  scant  courtesy,  but  she  had 
not  quitted  the  park  before  MacGregor's  tall  figure 
again  towered  over  her. 

"  Enlighten  the  brute  a  little  further,"  he  said  with 
elaborate  meekness.  "What  is  to  become  of  your 
work  ?  Richter  says  you  haven't  darkened  his  door 
since  your  marriage." 

"Four  whole  weeks!" 

"Oh,  jeer  away,"  he  grumbled.  "Honeymoon  or 
not,  it's  too  long." 

"I  must  think  of  Craig's  interests  first." 

MacGregor  lifted  his  hat. 

"Your  father  also  dabbled  in  clay  —  and  matri- 


268  THE   CRUCIBLE 

mony,  I  believe,"  he  said,  and  left  her  definitely  to 
herself. 

She  admitted  the  justice  of  his  reminder  when  her 
cheek  cooled,  and,  turning  into  a  cross-town  street, 
set  a  straight  course  for  Richter's.  The  swathed 
model  of  a  colossal  group  called  "Agriculture," 
which  he  had  in  hand  for  a  Western  exposition,  hid 
the  sculptor  as  she  pushed  open  the  door  of  the  big 
studio,  and  when  she  finally  came  upon  the  little  man 
it  was  to  discover  Mrs.  Joyce-Reeves  beside  him  in 
close  examination  of  an  uncovered  bit  of  foreground 
where  a  child  tumbled  in  joyous,  intimate  communion 
with  the  soil. 

They  broke  out  laughing  at  sight  of  Jean. 

"I  told  you  I  should  ask  Richter,"  declared  the 
old  lady,  briskly.  "His  answer  was  to  show  me 
this." 

Jean  flushed  at  this  indirect  praise  from  the 
master. 

"Mr.  Richter  let  me  have  a  hand  in  it,"  she  said. 

"A  hand  !  He  told  me  he  should  have  had  to  leave 
the  figure  out  altogether  if  you  had  not  experimented 
with  the  janitor's  baby." 

The  sculptor  was  now  blushing,  too. 

"He  did  not  tell  me,"  Jean  laughed. 

"Why  didn't  you?"  demanded  Mrs.  Joyce- 
Reeves,  abruptly.  "Why  didn't  you  encourage  the 
girl?" 

"I  think  praise  should  be  handled  gingerly,"  he 
explained. 


THE   CRUCIBLE  269 

"Is  it  such  moral  dynamite  ?     I  don't  believe  it." 

She  beamed  her  approval  of  Jean's  physical  endow- 
ments as  well,  lingering  in  particular  upon  her  eyes. 
Suddenly  she  gave  a  little  cluck  of  surprise,  whipped 
out  a  handkerchief,  and  laid  it  unceremoniously 
across  the  girl's  lower  face. 

"Do  you  know  Malcolm  MacGregor  ?"  she  de- 
manded. "Yes  ?  Then  I'm  the  owner  of  your  por- 
trait. It's  called  'The  Lattice.'  Atwood's  wife, 
MacGregor's  inspiration,  Richter's  collaborator  — 
my  dear,  you  are  very  wonderful.  Shall  I  take  you 
home  ?  I've  promised  your  husband  a  sitting." 

Jean  said  she  must  remain  and  work.  She  had 
thought  only  to  run  in  and  appease  Richter,  but  be- 
tween his  grudging  praise  and  MacGregor's  goad, 
she  found  her  fingers  itching  for  the  neglected  tools ; 
and  she  was  into  her  comprehensive  studio-apron 
before  Mrs.  Joyce-Reeves's  electric  brougham  had 
purred  halfway  down  the  block.  The  sculptor 
squandered  no  more  compliments  that  day,  however. 
Indeed,  he  swerved  heavily  to  the  opposite  extreme, 
but  Jean  dreamed  audacious  dreams  over  the  peni- 
tential copying  of  a  battered  antique,  and  the  after- 
noon was  far  gone  when  she  reluctantly  stopped 
work. 

Leaving  Richter's  door,  she  beheld  her  husband 
swinging  gayly  down  the  street.  He  waved  to  her 
boyishly  and  quickened  his  step. 

"Good  news  ?"  she  queried. 

"The  very  best,"  he  said,  seizing  both  her  hands, 


270  THE   CRUCIBLE 

to  the  lively  edification  of  two  nursemaids,  a  police- 
man, and  the  driver  of  a  passing  dray.  "I've  got 
my  interpretation,  Jean !  Got  it  at  last !  And  it 
came  through  you !" 

For  some  reason,  he  told  her,  Mrs.  Joyce-Reeves 
had  arrived  earlier  than  her  appointment.  Julie 
was  out,  but  luckily  she  caught  him,  and  so  an  hour 
of  vast  significance  tamely  began.  By  and  by  his 
sitter  mentioned  Jean,  her  work,  and  Richter's 
opinions,  and  plied  him  with  kindly  inquisitive  ques- 
tions about  their  love  affair  and  elopement,  till  —  all 
in  a  lightning  flash  —  it  came  to  him  that  here,  peep- 
ing from  behind  the  worldly  old  mask  which  every- 
body knew,  was  another,  unguessed  Mrs.  Joyce- 
Reeves  with  a  schoolgirl's  appetite  for  romance. 

"And  that  is  what  I  want  to  paint,"  he  declared. 
"Cynic  on  the  surface,  romanticist  at  heart." 

The  way  home  was  too  ridiculously  short,  and  they 
pieced  it  out  with  park  and  shop-window  saunterings. 
The  future  was  big  with  promise.  Both  should 
wear  the  bays. 

"For  something  she  dropped  set  me  thinking,"  At- 
wood  said.  "She  sees,  like  all  of  us,  that  children 
are  your  forte,  and  she  thinks  that  in  this  day  of  child 
study,  your  talent  can't  fail  to  make  its  mark.  The 
janitor's  baby  seems  to  have  swept  her  ofF  her  feet. 
She  said  the  janitors,  proud  race  though  they  be, 
must  not  be  allowed  to  monopolize  your  time.  Then 
she  spoke  of  her  great-grandchild,  and  I  think  there's 
something  in  the  wind." 


THE   CRUCIBLE  271 

Jean  trifled  with  the  intoxicating  possibilities  for 
a  dozen  paces. 

"Oh,"  she  said  finally,  as  if  shaking  herself  awake, 
"Richter  would  never  consent  to  my  trying  such 
things  yet." 

They  composed  their  frivolous  faces  under  the 
solemn  regard  of  Julie's  butler,  who  told  Jean  that  a 
caller  awaited  her  in  the  library. 

"A  lady  from  out  of  town,"  he  added. 

Jean  wondered,  "Why  the  library?"  and,  then, 
advancing,  wondered  again  as  a  silvery  tinkle  reached 
her  ears;  but  the  chief  marvel  of  all  was  the  spec- 
tacle of  Julie  Van  Ostade  and  Mrs.  Fanshaw  in 
amicable,  even  intimate,  converse  over  afternoon 
tea. 


XXV 

SURPRISE  held  her  at  the  threshold  an  instant, 
whereupon  a  rare,  beaming,  even  effusive,  Mrs.  Fan- 
shaw,  whom  Jean's  memories  linked  with  calls  from 
the  minister,  bore  down  on  her,  two  steps  to  her  one, 
and  engulfed  her  in  a  prolonged  embrace.  Then, 
holding  her  daughter  at  arm's  length  in  swift  appraise- 
ment of  her  dress  and  urban  air,  — 

"Death  brought  me,"  she  explained. 

"Death!" 

"Your  great-aunt  Martha  Tuttle  died  last  Friday 
at  brother  Andrew's  in  Paterson,"  she  announced 
in  lugubrious  tones  with  which  her  blithe  visage  could 
not  instantly  be  brought  in  harmony.  "I  am  on 
my  way  home  from  the  funeral." 

"I've  been  trying  to  persuade  your  mother  to  break 
her  journey  here  for  a  few  days,"  Julie  contributed, 
with  a  fugitive  smile;  "but  she  says  she  must  hurry 
away." 

"Amelia  expects  her  little  stranger  any  time  now," 
murmured  Mrs.  Fanshaw,  chastely.  "But  I  will 
stop  overnight,  perhaps  part  of  to-morrow,  thanking 
you  kindly,  Mrs.  Van  Ostade." 

"Pray  don't,"  deprecated  Julie,  moving  toward 

272 


THE   CRUCIBLE  273 

the  door.  "This  is  Jean's  home,  you  know.  Un- 
fortunately, I'm  dining  out  this  evening." 

Jean  learned  of  Mrs.  Fanshaw's  haste  and  Julie's 
engagement  with  equal  relief.  She  felt  no  snobbish 
shame  for  her  mother's  rusticity,  but  she  did  fear  her 
babbling  tongue,  and  her  first  word  on  Julie's  with- 
drawal was  one  of  caution. 

"Not  a  syllable  about  the  refuge  here,"  she  charged. 
"Neither  Craig  nor  I  wish  Mrs.  Van  Ostade  to  know. 
Remember,  mother." 

The  visitor's  eyes  widened. 

"Oh,"  she  observed  slowly,  "I  don't  see — " 

"We  see,"  Jean  cut  her  short.  "You  must  respect 
my  wishes  in  this." 

"All  right,"  assented  Mrs.  Fanshaw,  with  amazing 
meekness.  "Is  your  husband  on  the  premises?" 

"You  will  meet  him  soon,"  she  replied,  thinking  it 
expedient  that  Julie  or  herself  should  first  give  At- 
wood  some  hint  of  what  lay  in  store. 

"  He  is  really  quite  well  known,  isn't  he  ?  I've 
taken  more  notice  of  magazine  pictures  since  I  heard 
I  had  another  son-in-law.  I  hope  he's  not  wild. 
They  tell  of  such  goings-on  among  artists  and  models. 
I  seem  to  recollect,  though,  they  were  French." 

"Craig  is  a  gentleman." 

"I'm  bound  to  say  his  sister  is  a  lady,"  Mrs.  Fan- 
shaw replied  to  this  laconic  statement.  "Is  she  any 
connection  of  that  Mrs.  Quentin  Van  Ostade  the 
papers  mention  so  much?" 

(<  Julie  is  her  daughter-in-law." 


274  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"You  don't  tell  me!"  She  was  impressed  to  the 
verge  of  awe.  "Why,  that  makes  you  sister-in-law 
to  Mrs.  Quentin  Van  Ostade's  son  !" 

"He  is  dead." 

"Dead  !"  Her  face  paid  the  late  Mr.  Van  Ostade 
the  fleeting  tribute  of  a  shadow.  "What  a  pity! 
But  I  presume  his  mother  still  sees  something  of  his 
widow  ? " 

"Oh,  yes." 

"And  comes  here  sometimes  ?" 

"  Frequently." 

Mrs.  Fanshaw  resurveyed  her  surroundings  as  if 
they  had  taken  on  historic  interest. 

"You've  seen  her?" 

"Yes." 

"I  mean,  really  met  her  —  been  introduced  ?" 

"Yes,"  Jean  admitted,  without  humility. 

Her  mother  eyed  her  with  respectful  interest. 

"I  hope  you'll  keep  your  head,  Jean,"  she  ad- 
monished solemnly.  "This  is  a  great  come-up  in  the 
world  for  you." 

An  impish  impulse  took  shape  in  Jean's  brain,  and, 
under  cover  of  showing  the  house,  she  guided  Mrs. 
Fanshaw  by  edifying  stages  to  Craig's  temporary 
studio  and  the  great  work. 

"A  portrait  he's  doing!"  she  dropped  care- 
lessly. 

Her  mother  as  carelessly  bestowed  a  brief  glance 
upon  the  canvas. 

"What  a  wrinkled  old  woman,"  she  commented, 


THE   CRUCIBLE  275 

turning  away.  "But  I  suppose  it  is  the  money 
your  husband  is  thinking  of?" 

"Partly." 

"What  will  he  get  for  it?" 

Jean  pondered  demurely. 

"It  is  hard  to  say.  Perhaps  a  thousand,  perhaps 
two  thousand  dollars." 

"What !"  She  wheeled  upon  the  portrait.  "Why, 
who  is  the  woman  ?" 

"Mrs.  Joyce-Reeves." 

The  effect  was  as  dramatic  as  Jean's  unfilial  fancy 
had  hoped. 

"The  Mrs.  Joyce-Reeves  of  Fifth  Avenue  and 
Newport  ? " 

"And  of  Lenox,  Aiken,  and  Ormond  —  yes." 

Mrs.  Fanshaw's  attitude  toward  the  portrait  be- 
came reverential.  Here  was  hallowed  ground  ! 

"Have  you  met  her,  too  ?"  she  asked  finally,  with 
the  realization  that  even  her  child  might  share  the 
sacerdotal  mysteries. 

"Yes." 

"You  have  talked  with  her  ?" 

"Only  this  afternoon." 

"Here?" 

"She  was  here  to-day,  for  a  sitting,  but  I  ran  across 
her  at  Mr.  Richter's  studio." 

"That  is  where  you  go  to  — " 

"To  model;  yes."  Then,  with  great  calm,  "Mrs. 
Joyce-Reeves  admires  my  work." 

A  chastened,  pensive,  almost  deferential,  being, 


276  THE  CRUCIBLE 

who  from  time  to  time  stole  puzzled  glances  at  her 
ugly  duckling  turned  swan,  let  herself  be  shown  to  her 
room  and  smartened  for  dinner,  to  which  she  de- 
scended at  what  seemed  to  her  robust  appetite  an 
unconscionably  late  hour.  Here  the  fame  of  her  son- 
in-law  and  the  even  more  disconcerting  attentions 
of  the  butler  combined  to  make  her  subjugation 
complete. 

Sweet  as  was  her  victory,  however,  Jean  had  no 
wish  to  see  her  mother  ill  at  ease,  and  she  rejoiced 
when  Craig  exerted  himself  to  entertain  this  visitor 
whose  subdued,  almost  shy,  manner  was  so  bewilder- 
ingly  at  variance  with  the  forbidding  image  his  fancy 
had  set  up.  Moreover,  he  succeeded.  If  Mrs. 
Fanshaw's  parochial  outlook  dulled  the  edge  of  his 
choicer  quips  and  anecdotes,  his  boyish  charm,  at 
least,  required  no  footnotes;  and  before  the  dinner 
ended  she  was  bearing  her  gustful  share  in  the  con- 
versation with  such  largess  of  detail  that  a  far  less 
imaginative  listener  than  he  might  reconstruct  there- 
from the  whole  social  and  economic  fabric  of  Shawnee 
Springs. 

To  Jean,  who  in  dark  moments  had  longed  to  for- 
get it  utterly,  the  narrow  little  town  recurred  with 
sharp,  unlovely  lines.  Forget  it !  She  could  as  easily 
forget  that  this  was  her  mother.  Flout  it  as  she  would, 
it  yet  stood  closer  to  her  than  any  spot  on  earth.  Its 
censure  and  its  respect  were  neither  despicable;  her 
rehabilitation  in  its  purblind  eyes  was  a  thing  de- 
sirable above  all  other  ambitions.  Then,  presently, 


THE   CRUCIBLE  277 

in  this  hour  when  she  craved  such  justification  deep- 
est, its  possibility,  even  its  certainty,  came  to  her. 
She  had  slipped  away  to  answer  one  of  the  more  im- 
perative letters  which  Craig's  detestation  of  affairs 
left  to  her,  and  as  she  mused  a  moment  over  her  fin- 
ished task,  the  drift  of  Mrs.  Fanshaw's  monologue  in 
the  room  beyond  penetrated  her  revery. 

She  was  talking,  as  Jean  had  heard  her  talk  times 
innumerable,  with  endless  variations  upon  a  single 
theme.  But  the  burden  of  her  laud  was  no  longer 
Amelia  !  Now  it  was  Jean  —  her  childish  spirit, 
her  school-time  precocity,  her  early  love  of  shaping 
things  in  clay,  her  promise,  her  beauty,  her  future  — 
Jean,  always  Jean  !  And  as  the  girl  at  the  desk 
drank  it  in  thirstily,  she  foresaw  the  end.  Signs 
there  had  been  already  that  Amelia  was  wavering 
on  her  pedestal  —  her  husband  and  her  husband's 
family,  the  proud  Fargos,  had  impaired  her  saint- 
hood; and  now  in  the  tireless,  fatuous,  sweet  re- 
frain, Jean  read  her  own  elevation  to  the  vacant  niche. 
Hot  tears  blinded  her.  It  might  not  be  her  noblest 
compensation ;  but  it  was  the  dearest. 

If  Mrs.  Fanshaw's  coming  marked  the  dawn  of 
another  day  in  Jean's  spirit,  its  effect  on  her  external 
welfare  was  less  happy.  Her  relations  with  Julie 
were  beyond  question  altered,  though  precisely  where 
the  difference  lay  was  not  easy  to  detect.  Intuition, 
rather  than  any  overt  act  or  word  of  Mrs.  Van  Os- 
tade's,  told  her  this,  for  their  surface  intercourse 
went  on  much  as  before;  but,  elusive  and  volatile 


278  THE   CRUCIBLE 

as  this  changed  atmosphere  was,  she  nevertheless 
knew  it  for  something  real,  alert,  and  vaguely  hostile. 
Yet  this  aloofness,  if  aloofness  it  could  be  called,  was 
so  bound  up  in  Julie's  propaganda  on  behalf  of  Craig's 
career  that  Jean  took  it  for  a  not  unnatural  jealousy. 

Atwood  fed  the  flame  with  repeated  acknowledg- 
ments of  his  wife's  share  in  solving  his  riddle,  the 
fervor  of  which  leaped  from  bud  to  bloom  with  tropic 
extravagance  as  the  portrait  went  rapidly  forward 
and  the  judgment  of  MacGregor  and  other  experts 
assured  him  of  its  strength.  His  sister,  Jean  noted, 
always  took  these  outbursts  in  silence.  The  portrait 
expressed  a  Mrs.  Joyce-Reeves  with  whom  she  was 
unfamiliar,  either  over  the  tea-cups  or  elsewhere,  but 
she  had  the  breadth  to  recognize  its  bigness  and  set 
her  restless  energy  to  work  to  exploit  it  with  all  her 
might. 

Of  her  methods  Jean  perhaps  saw  more  than  Mrs. 
Van  Ostade  supposed.  For  a  fortnight  Atwood  let 
the  nearly  finished  portrait  cool,  as  he  said,  and  busied 
himself  at  his  regular  studio  with  such  illustrative 
work  as  he  was  still  under  contract  to  deliver.  This 
was  Julie's  opportunity.  That  Atwood  was  painting 
Mrs.  Joyce-Reeves  was  no  secret  —  a  discreet  para- 
graph or  two  had  sown  the  seed  of  publicity  in  fertile 
ground ;  and  Julie  furthermore  let  it  leak  out  among 
those  it  might  interest  that  the  sittings  took  place 
beneath  her  roof.  Skillful  playing  of  influential 
callers  who  rose  eagerly  to  allusions  to  the  opinions 
of  the  critics  —  Mr.  Malcolm  MacGregor,  for  exam- 


THE   CRUCIBLE  279 

pie  —  would  lead  usually,  in  strictest  confidence,  to  a 
stolen  view  of  the  masterpiece.  By  such  devices  — 
and  others  —  it  came  to  pass  that  Atwood,  happily 
ignorant  of  the  wire-pulling  which  loosed  the  falling 
manna,  found  himself  commissioned  to  paint  three 
more  persons  of  consequence  so  soon  as  his  engage- 
ments to  Mrs.  Joyce-Reeves  and  the  publishers 
would  permit. 

Craig  ascribed  it  all  to  society's  proneness  to  follow 
its  bell-wethers. 

"But  I  never  gauged  Mrs.  Joyce-Reeves's  true 
power,  the  magic  of  her  mere  name,"  he  said  re- 
peatedly. "Three  orders  on  the  bare  gossip  that 
she  has  given  me  sittings !" 

Julie  begged  Jean  not  to  undeceive  him. 

"At  least  not  yet,"  she  qualified.  "He  is  quixotic 
enough  to  throw  his  chance  away,  if  he  thought  I 
used  a  little  business  common  sense  to  make  his  art 
pay.  I've  never  dared  let  him  know  the  labor  it  cost 
to  interest  Mrs.  Joyce-Reeves.  Not  that  it  was  ille- 
gitimate or  in  any  way  underhanded.  All  this  is  as 
legitimate  as  the  social  pressure  a  clever  architect 
brings  to  bear,  and  nobody  thinks  of  censuring. 
But  illusions  are  precious  to  Craig;  they  feed  his 
inspiration.  So  I  say,  let  him  enjoy  them  while  he 
can.  Let  him  think  commissions  drop  from  the 
skies." 

Jean  doubted  the  truth  of  this  estimate  of  Craig, 
but  she  did  full  justice  to  Mrs.  Van  Ostade's  motives 
and  to  the  signal  success  of  her  campaign  which,  for 


28o  THE   CRUCIBLE 

all  she  knew  of  such  matters,  might  be,  as  Julie  said, 
legitimate,  and  at  this  time  even  vitally  important. 
The  necessity  for  a  change  of  studio,  which  now  re- 
curred, seemed  logical,  too. 

"You  now  see  for  yourself,  Craig,  how  unsuited 
to  portrait  work  your  old  quarters  are,"  Julie  argued. 

"Virginia  Hepworth  won't  mind  coming  here  — 
she  is  next,  you  know;  but  you  can't  go  on  this  way 
indefinitely.  Of  course,  it's  possible  that  you  may 
find  it  desirable  to  take  a  temporary  studio  at  New- 
port for  the  summer;  but  in  the  fall  people  will  ex- 
pect a  city  studio  worthy  of  your  reputation." 

Atwood  was  tractable. 

"We  must  have  a  look  around,"  he  assented. 

"I  have  looked  around,"  announced  his  sister; 
"and  I've  found  something  you  couldn't  possibly 
better.  It  has  every  convenience  —  a  splendid  work- 
room, a  large  reception-room,  a  dressing-room,  and 
an  extra  chamber  which  would  be  useful  for  the 
caterer  when  you  receive.  It  will  require  very  little 
redecorating,  though  they're  willing  to  do  it  through- 
out, if  we  like." 

"That  sounds  like  the  Copley  Studios." 

"It  is." 

Atwood  laughed. 

"  Must  it  be  the  pink-tea  district,  after  all,  Julie  ? 
Boy  in  buttons  at  the  door,  velvet-coated  poseur  — 
Artist  with  a  capital  A  —  in  the  holy  of  holies. 
What  will  old  Mac  say !  Jean,  what  do  you 
think?" 


THE   CRUCIBLE  281 

She  felt  Julie's  compelling  eye  upon  her,  and  re- 
sented its  domination;  but  she  saw  no  choice  of  ways. 

"The  velvet  jacket  isn't  compulsory,  is  it?"  she 
said  lightly.  "Why  not  look  at  the  studio  ?" 

"I'll  drop  in  the  first  time  I  am  near,"  he  agreed. 

Julie  coughed. 

"I  ventured  to  make  an  appointment,"  she  said. 
"They  only  show  it  by  special  permission  of  the 
owners,  the  Peter  Y.  Satterlee  Company.  Mr. 
Satterlee  himself  offered  to  be  at  the  building  at 
twelve  o'clock  to-morrow,  if  that  hour  will  suit. 
To  deal  with  him  in  person  would  be  an  advantage." 

"Would  it?"  responded  Craig,  hazily.  "Very 
well.  Can  you  go,  Jean?" 

"If  you  want  me,"  she  returned,  feeling  outside 
the  discussion. 

"Of  course.  I  count  on  you  and  Julie  to  browbeat 
the  real-estate  shark  into  reducing  the  summer's 
rent.  All  I  shall  be  good  for  is  to  tell  you  whether 
there  is  a  practicable  north  light." 

Jean  came  late.  Richter  had  abruptly  taken  her 
off  the  spirit-mortifying  antique  to  aid  him  with  one 
of  his  lesser  studies  for  the  Western  exposition,  and 
the  forenoon  had  been  absorbing.  To  watch  Richter 
model  was  much;  to  help  him  a  heaven-sent  boon  to 
be  exercised  in  fear  and  trembling  and  exceeding 
joy.  The  stroke  of  twelve,  which  should  have  found 
her  with  Craig,  saw  her  but  leaving  Richter's  door. 
The  distance  was  short,  however,  and  at  a  quarter 
past  the  hour  the  overupholstered  elevator  of  the 


282  THE   CRUCIBLE 

Copley  Studios  bore  her  without  vulgar  haste 
aloft. 

It  was  all  vastly  different  from  Craig's  unfashion- 
able top-story  back,  a  mile  or  more  down-town. 
No  shabby  street  confronted  this  temple  of  the  fine 
arts;  its  benign  facade  overlooked  a  trim  park  and 
the  vehicles  of  elegant  leisure.  No  base  odor  of 
cabbage  or  garlic  rose  from  the  nether  lair  of  its 
janitor;  no  plebeian  tailor  or  dressmaker  debased  the 
tone  of  its  lower  floors.  Its  courts  were  of  marble, 
and  its  flunkies  had  supple  spines. 

The  door  to  which  Jean  was  directed  stood  ajar, 
and  she  let  herself  in  to  encounter  other  mighty 
differences.  The  entrance  to  the  down-town  studio 
precipitated  the  caller  squarely  into  the  travail  of 
artistic  production,  but  the  architect  who  planned  the 
Copley  Studios  had  interposed  a  little  hall  with  a 
stained-glass  window-nook  and  a  reception-room 
of  creamy  empire  fittings  between  genius  and  its 
interruptions. 

From  the  studio  proper  issued  Julie's  level  tones, 
presumably  in  discussion  with  Peter  Y.  Satterlee, 
for  Jean  heard  Craig's  meditative  whistle  in  another 
direction.  Following  a  small  passage,  she  came 
upon  him  studying  the  convolutions  of  a  nervous  jet 
of  steam  which  found  vent  among  the  myriad  chim- 
neys of  the  nearer  outlook. 

"Will  it  do?"  she  smiled. 

"Splendidly  —  almost  too  splendidly.  Julie  and 
the  magnificent  Satterlee  are  settling  terms,  I  be- 


THE   CRUCIBLE  283 

lieve.  Behold  your  studio,  sculptress  mine!"  he 
added  with  a  grandiloquent  gesture.  "This  is  the 
extra  chamber  of  Julie's  rhapsodies,  otherwise  a  bach- 
elor's bedroom  about  to  be  dedicated  to  nobler  ends. 
Notice  your  view,  Jean  !  New  York,  the  Hudson, 
Jersey's  hills,  and  the  promise  of  sunsets  beyond  com- 
pare !  And  look  here"  —  descending  to  practicality 
-"running  water  handy  and  my  workshop  next. 
We  shall  virtually  work  side  by  side." 

He  pushed  open  the  connecting  door,  and  they 
entered  the  studio.  Julie  and  a  globular  man  in 
superfine  raiment  stood  like  ill-balanced  caryatids 
in  support  of  either  end  of  the  mantelpiece. 

"I  agree  to  everything,"  he  was  saying.  "The 
leases  shall  be  ready  to-morrow." 

The  voice  signaled  some  cell  in  lean's  brain.     The 

O  */ 

face,  which  he  turned  immediately  upon  her,  gave 
memory  its  instant  clew,  and  she  felt  her  skin  go 
hot  and  cold  under  Peter  Y.  Satterlee's  earnest  gaze. 

"Have  you  a  double,  Mrs.  Atwood?"  he  asked, 
after  a  moment's  idle  discussion  of  the  studio. 

She  tried  to  face  him  calmly. 

"A  double?     I  think  not." 

"Why?"   demanded  Julie. 

Satterlee  pursued  his  investigations  with  madden- 
ing care. 

"It's  a  most  extraordinary  resemblance,  particu- 
larly as  to  eyes,"  he  said.  "There  was  a  young 
woman,  a  dentist's  wife,  living  in  a  Harlem  apart- 
ment of  ours  —  the  Lorna  Doone,  it  was  —  who 


284  THE   CRUCIBLE 

might  be  Mrs.  Atwood's  twin.  You  didn't  marry  a 
widow,  sir?"  he  broke  off  jocularly. 

Atwood  laughingly  shook  his  head. 

"How  curious  !"  he  exclaimed.  "What  was  her 
name  ?" 

"There  you  have  me,"  admitted  the  agent,  after 
brain-fagging  efforts.  "I  can't  recollect.  I  sold 
the  property  very  soon." 


XXVI 

RID  of  them  all,  Jean  was  tormented  by  a  host  of 
replies  and  courses  of  action,  any  one  of  which,  she 
believed,  would  have  blunted  the  edge  of  Julie's  sus- 
picion. For  she  was  suspicious  !  There  could  be  no 
doubt  of  it.  To  Craig  she  longed  to  offer  some  ex- 
planation, but  her  love  bade  her  reject  anything  short 
of  the  whole  truth,  even  as  it  told  her  that  the  whole 
truth  was  impossible.  Every  hour  of  her  wedded 
happiness  heaped  proof  on  proof  of  the  joy  he  took 
in  the  belief  that  he  alone  had  filled  her  heart.  And 
was  he  not  right  ?  Had  not  his  dear  image  persisted 
—  canonized,  enshrined,  worshiped  —  since  their 
forest  meeting!  Paul  had  never  displaced  it.  In 
truth,  it  had  shone  the  brighter  because  of  Paul. 
But  how  put  this  holy  mystery  in  words ! 

She  took  refuge  in  an  opportunism  not  unlike 
Amy's.  Did  not  time  and  chance  rule  the  world  ! 
Yet  her  peace  of  mind  was  fitful,  and  she  shunned 
the  Copley  Studios  with  a  fear  which  hearkened  to  no 
argument.  It  was  useless  to  remind  herself  that 
Satterlee  was  a  man  of  many  interests.  Her  imagina- 
tion always  figured  him  as  haunting  the  room  where 
she  had  come  upon  him.  There  he  waited,  a  ro- 
tund bomb  by  the  mantelpiece,  with  the  explosive 


286  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"Bartlett"  in  his  subconsciousness  ready  to  destroy 
her  the  instant  her  face  should  at  last  apply  the  fatal 
spark.  So  it  fell  out  that,  pleading  her  own  work 
whenever  Craig,  himself  absorbed  in  the  Hepworth 
portrait,  asked  her  opinion  of  his  sister's  ideas,  the 
new  studio's  furnishing  went  forward  without  her  and 
in  unhampered  accord  with  Julie's  ambitious  plans. 

How  far-reaching  these  plans  were  she  first  ade- 
quately perceived  through  MacGregor,  whose  card 
came  up  to  her  one  evening  when  both  Atwood  and 
Mrs.  Van  Ostade  were  out. 

"  I  counted  on  finding  you  alone,"  he  owned  with 
characteristic  bluntness.  "Craig  has  gone  to  the 
Salmagundi  doings,  of  course,  —  I'm  due  there  later; 
while  I  happen  to  know  that  Julie  is  dining  with  her 
mother-in-law.  I  met  Julie  this  afternoon  at  the 
Copley  Studios." 

"Then  you  saw  Craig's  new  quarters?" 

"Yes.     Have  you  seen  them  ?" 

"Why  do  you  ask  that  question  ?" 

"I  gathered  that  you  hadn't." 

"  I  went  there  the  day  Craig  took  the  place." 

"And  have  not  returned  !     Why?" 

"I  am  working  hard  with  Richter." 

"So  he  tells  me.  Don't  overwork.  Art  isn't 
everything." 

"Aren't  you  inconsistent?"    she  laughed. 

"Lord,  yes!  Consistently  inconsistent.  Life 
would  lose  half  its  sparkle,  if  I  weren't.  But  the 
new  studio;  you  should  have  a  look  in;  it  would 


THE   CRUCIBLE  287 

interest  you.  I  don't  often  trouble  the  pink-tea  dis- 
trict, but  an  errand  took  me  into  the  Copley  building 
to-day  just  as  Julie  entered,  and  she  offered  to  show 
me  through." 

His  meditations  became  irksome. 

"Well?"    Jean  prompted. 

"Julie  should  have  been  a  stage-manager,"  he 
said.  "Her  scenic  instinct  is  remarkable.  She 
sees  Craig's  place  peopled  with  a  fashionable  por- 
trait-painter's clientele,  and  has  set  her  properties 
accordingly.  His  Italian  finds,  —  his  tapestries,  his 
old  furniture,  his  Pompeian  bronzes,  —  the  new  grand 
piano,  and  the  various  other  newnesses,  all  present 
themselves  as  background  for  society  drama.  I  take 
off"  my  hat  to  her.  She,  too,  is  an  artist,  an  artist  of 
imagination.  It  is  all  perfectly  done.  Nothing  lacks 
but  the  fashionable  portrait-painter." 

"And  the  drama  ?"   Jean  suggested. 

"Oh,  that  is  being  looked  after.  She  plans  a 
house-warming  of  some  sort.  You  haven't  been 
consulted  ?" 

"No." 

"Neither  has  Craig,  I  dare  say.  Perhaps  the  idea 
only  took  shape  while  she  talked  with  me.  I  can't 
give  you  the  technical  name  of  the  function,  but  it 
will  be  worthy  of  the  manager's  reputation.  The 
scheme  is  to  get  Mrs.  Joyce-Reeves's  portrait,  Miss 
Hepworth's,  and  mine  —  yes,  mine  !  —  before  as 
many  as  possible  of  the  opulent  beings  who  itch  to 
hand  their  empty  faces  down  to  posterity.  By  the 
way,  I  want  to  see  the  Hepworth  portrait." 


288  THE   CRUCIBLE 

She  took  him  to  the  billiard-room  and  brought  the 

o 

unfinished  picture  to  the  easel.  MacGregor  turned 
off  a  warring  light,  chose  a  view-point,  bestrode  a 
chair,  and  lapsed  into  a  long  silence.  Jean  tried 
to  read  his  rugged  face,  but  finding  it  inscrutable, 
herself  studied  the  canvas.  Fuller  knowledge  of 
Craig's  sitter  had  failed  to  reveal  the  qualities  of  mind 
he  found  so  stimulating;  but  now,  confronting  the 
immobile  counterfeit,  she  hit  with  disturbing  cer- 
tainty upon  the  truth  that  Virginia  Hepworth's 
appeal  was  physical,  and  to  men  as  men. 

A  moment  afterward  MacGregor  confirmed  her 
intuition. 

"I  don't  know  her  any  better,"  he  said.  "Out- 
wardly she  is  the  same  neurotic  creature  I've  seen  all 
along.  Apathetic  with  other  women,  she  stirs  to  life 
and  takes  her  tints  from  the  particular  male  with 
whom  she  chances  to  be.  Craig  has  missed  an  op- 
portunity to  dissect  a  chameleon." 

"You  think  it's  a  failure  !" 

"Psychologically,  I  do;  technically,  no.  In  color, 
texture,  it  is  masterly.  Don't  distress  yourself  about 
its  success;  it  will  be  only  too  successful.  I  think 
it  will  even  have  the  bad  luck  to  be  popular." 

Jean's  loyalty  rose  to  do  battle. 

"It's  to  Craig's  credit  that  he  could  not  see  her 
truly,"  she  retorted.  "If  she  takes  her  tints  from  the 
man  with  whom  she  talks,  then  he  has  painted  into 
her  something  of  himself,  something  fine.  But 
wasn't  it  hers  for  the  moment  ?  Why,  then,  shouldn't 
he  show  her  at  her  best,  not  her  worst  ?" 


THE   CRUCIBLE  289 

MacGregor  laughed  immoderately. 

"That  is  stanch  and  wifely  and  nonsensical.  It  is 
not  a  portrait-painter's  business  to  supply  the  virtues 
or  the  vices.  His  palette  ought  to  contain  neither 
mud  nor  whitewash.  It  is  his  duty  to  see  things  as 
they  are." 

"  But  how  can  you  expect  Craig  to  see  Miss  Hep- 
worth  as  she  is  ?  He's  not  — " 

"  Middle-aged,  like  myself,"  suggested  MacGregor, 
as  she  hesitated.  "Say  it !  It  makes  your  fling  con- 
crete, personal,  feminine." 

Jean's  wrath  cooled  in  a  smile. 

"I  was  going  to  add,  cynical,"  she  said.  "Is  that 
a  personality  ?" 

"It's  wide  of  the  mark,  whatever  we  call  it.  I'm 
no  cynic.  If  I  were,  I  should  merely  stand  by  and 
laugh,  not  interfere." 

"Don't  put  it  that  way." 

"It  amounts  to  interference.  I  can't  cheat  you, 
and  I  don't  fool  myself  into  thinking  my  talk  about 
Craig's  work  is  impersonal.  Neither  is  what  I  say 
about  Julie  impersonal.  Of  course  you've  heard 
that  she  jilted  me  for  Van  Ostade  ?  Eh  ?  I  thought 
so.  Don't  think  you  must  say  you're  sorry,"  he 
protested  hastily,  as  her  lips  parted.  "  I'm  not  sorry. 
I'm  thankful  for  my  escape.  That  sounds  bitter  to 
you.  Perhaps  I  am  bitter,  but  the  bitterness  is  for 
myself,  not  her;  and  it  doesn't  sway  my  judgment 
of  her  influence  upon  Craig  by  a  hair's  breadth.  He 
thinks  it  does,  naturally,  and  he  discounts  my  warn- 


290  THE   CRUCIBLE 

ings.  But  I  know,  and  you  will  know,  if  you  don't 
see  it  yet,  that  he  must  shake  her  off.  Otherwise  he's 
damned." 

Jean  kindled  from  his  fiery  earnestness. 

"What  must  I  do?"  she  asked.  "Do  you  think 
the  new  studio  is  a  mistake?" 

"No;  I  don't  say  it  is.  Craig  had  to  come  up- 
town. I'm  not  maintaining,  either,  that  he  can't 
paint  under  such  conditions.  Some  men  they  stimu- 
late. It  isn't  the  studio;  it's  the  commercial  cam- 
paign it  stands  for  which  makes  my  gorge  rise. 
Mind  you,  I  don't  censure  Craig  for  not  grasping 
Miss  Hepworth  in  character.  His  youth  is  respon- 
sible for  that  fluke.  But  if  he  listens  to  Julie,  he'll 
soon  be  painting  everybody  at  their  best  moments. 
He'll  take  orders  like  a  factory  —  yes ;  and  execute 
thern  like  a  factory  —  shallow,  slap-dash,  character- 
less vanities  all  of  a  mould,  which  fools  will  buy 
and  the  future  ignore.  There  is  no  lost  soul  so  tor- 
tured as  the  fashionable  portrait-painter  who  has 
once  known  honest  work.  You  must  save  Craig 
from  such  a  fate.  Don't  think  he  is  too  strong  to  suc- 
cumb. I've  seen  men  with  as  much  promise  as  his 
go  under.  Help  him  keep  his  feeling  fresh.  See 
that  he  has  time  to  linger  over  and  search  out  each 
subject.  Make  him  paint  even  the  mediocrities  as 
they  are." 

"How  shall  I  begin?" 

"Throw  Julie  overboard,"  answered  MacGregor, 
instantly.  "I  did  not  come  here  to  mince  words. 


THE   CRUCIBLE  291 

I  want  to  bring  this  home  to  you  before  I  leave  the 
country.  I  sail  for  Africa  day  after  to-morrow." 

"For  Africa!" 

"Yes.  This  is  good-by.  A  magazine  has  made 
me  an  offer  I  can't  afford  to  refuse." 

She  was  oppressed  by  a  great  loneliness. 

"Then  I  must  fight  it  out  single-handed,"  she  said. 

"You  would  fight  single-handed  if  I  were  here,  I'm 
afraid.  Nobody  can  help  you  much.  The  most  I 
can  do  is  to  try  to  convince  you  that  you  must  fight. 
You  must  show  Julie  her  place,  and  show  her  soon. 
Don't  be  soft-hearted  about  it.  She's  not  soft,  trust 
my  word.  You  are  dealing  with  an  enemy  —  under- 
stand it  clearly.  She  is  an  enemy  and  a  clever  one. 
Julie  could  not  prevent  your  marriage,  but  she  may 
break  it." 

She  paled  at  the  conviction  of  his  tone. 

"I  can't  believe  it!" 

"Can't  you?  I  tell  you  the  process  of  alienation 
has  begun.  Doesn't  Craig  think  you  indifferent  about 
the  studio  ?" 

"Perhaps.     I  had  reasons — " 

"Chuck  them  away." 

"And  he  knows  I've  been  busy  with  Richter. 
Craig  himself  is  lukewarm  about  the  studio." 

"You  must  not  be.  It  may  be  your  battle-ground. 
I  don't  say  it  will;  but  it  may  be,  and  it  behooves 
you  to  look  after  your  defences."  He  glowered  at 
the  painted  face  a  moment,  then:  "You  may  know 
that  the  Chameleon  was  Julie's  own  choice  for  sister- 


292  THE   CRUCIBLE 

in-law.  Yes  ?  It's  a  fact  worth  thinking  over. 
Good-by,  Jean,  and  good  luck !  I  haven't  been 
agreeable,  but  I've  spoken  as  a  friend.  You  feel 
that,  I  hope  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  unsteadily;  "and  thank 
you." 

MacGregor  winced  as  her  voice  broke. 

"Buck  up,  buck  up!"  he  charged.  "You'll  win 
out,  sure ! " 

She  brooded  over  his  words  till  Atwood's  return, 
but  without  seeing  her  way,  and  a  restless  night  sug- 
gested only  courses  too  fantastic  for  the  light  of  day. 
She  could  not  repeat  MacGregor's  warnings  to  Craig, 
nor  could  she  voice  them  as  her  own ;  while  to  attack 
Julie  openly  seemed  maddest  of  all.  She  could  only 
drift  and  bide  a  time  to  assert  herself  with  dignity. 

Such  a  chance  seemed  to  offer  at  luncheon  when 
Mrs.  Van  Ostade  asked  Craig  for  suggestions  regard- 
ing the  decoration  of  the  small  room  off  the  main 
studio. 

"It  has  never  been  done  up,  you  know,"  she  con- 
tinued. "The  last  tenant  did  not  occupy  it  at  all. 
We  shall  need  it,  however,  and  I  think  it  should  be 
put  in  order  at  once.  I'll  use  my  own  discretion,  if 
you  don't  want  to  be  bothered." 

"  But  that  is  Jean's  affair,"  he  said. 

Julie's  eyebrows  arched. 

"Really!" 

"She  and  I  settled  it  in  the  beginning  that  she 
should  have  that  room  for  her  work.'3 


THE   CRUCIBLE  293 

His  sister  drew  her  knife  through  an  inoffensive 
chop  with  bloodthirsty  vehemence. 

"Indeed!"    she  returned. 

"I  will  look  after  its  decoration,"  put  in  Jean, 
quietly. 

Mrs.  Van  Ostade's  dusky  skin  shadowed  with  the 
dull  red  which  marked  her  infrequent  flush. 

"It  must  be  in  harmony  with  the  other  rooms," 
she  said  sharply.  "At  times  it  will  be  necessary  to 
throw  everything  open." 

"Of  course." 

"And  it  should  be  done  immediately.  In  fact, 
Mr.  Satterlee  promised  to  look  in  at  the  studio  about 
it  at  five  o'clock  to-day." 

Jean  was  staggered,  but  she  could  not  hesitate. 

"I  will  meet  Mr.  Satterlee,"  she  answered. 

Julie's  thin  lips  parted  in  a  travesty  of  a  smile. 

"You  are  sure  it  would  be  agreeable  ?"   she  asked. 

Atwood  lifted  his  eyes  at  her  tone. 

"Agreeable,  Julie  ?"  he  said.  "Why  do  you  give 
the  word  that  twist  ?  Why  shouldn't  it  be  agree- 
able?" 

Jean  felt  like  an  animal  in  a  trap,  but  she  faced 
Mrs.  Van  Ostade  with  head  erect  and  unflinching 
eyes. 

"Yes;  why?"   she  demanded. 

Julie  seemed  to  weigh  a  reply  which  prudent  second 
thought  bade  her  check. 

"How  tragic  you  two  have  suddenly  become," 
she  drawled.  "Isn't  it  possible  that  the  exacting 


294  THE   CRUCIBLE 

Richter  may  have  a  prior  claim  ?  I  am  only  too  happy 
that  Jean  can  find  time  to  revisit  the  studio  —  and 
meet  Mr.  Satterlee.  I  hope,  Craig,  you  will  be 
present  yourself?" 

Atwood  looked  frankly  distressed  over  the  rancor- 
ous turn  the  discussion  had  taken. 

"If  you'll  wait  for  me,  Jean,"  he  said,  "we  will 
walk  over  together.  Miss  Hepworth  is  to  give  me 
a  sitting  at  three." 

Jean  went  heavy-hearted  to  her  room  and  flung 
herself  down  to  wonder  dully  how  it  would  end. 
Drowsiness  overtook  her  in  these  unprofitable  ques- 
tionings, and,  spent  with  her  wearing  night,  she  fell 
into  a  deep  slumber  which  shut  out  all  thought  till 
a  knock  called  her  back  to  face  reality  smugly  em- 
bodied in  a  servant  with  a  card-tray. 

Paul !  The  bit  of  pasteboard  fluttered  to  the 
floor.  What  brought  him  here  ?  Then,  perceiving 
a  gleam  of  human  curiosity  light  the  face  of  the  au- 
tomaton with  the  tray,  she  gripped  her  self-control 
and  bade  the  man  tell  Bartlett  that  she  would  see 
him. 

"It's  Amy,"  explained  the  dentist,  rising  from  a 
respectful  survey  of  Mrs.  Van  Ostade's  drawing- 
room.  "Nothing  will  do  her  but  that  you  must  come 
up  to  the  flat.  It  isn't  a  thing  I  could  'phone  or  I 
wouldn't  have  broken  in  on  you  like  this,  let  alone 
hustling  down  here  between  appointments  and  maybe 
missing  other  patients." 

"But  what  is  it?" 


THE   CRUCIBLE  295 

"The  drummer.  Amy  thinks  he  means  to  shake 
her,  and  she's  gone  all  to  pieces.  I  ran  in  there  to 
ask  for  the  rent,  which  is  'way  behind,  and  found  her 
all  in  a  heap.  It  was  no  place  for  P.B.  Amy  needs 
another  woman  and  needs  her  bad ;  and  it  seems  to  be 
up  to  you.  I  know  it's  tough,  asking  you  to  go  back 
to  the  Lorna  Doone  where  every  stick  of  furniture  — " 

"I'll  go,"  she  interrupted.  "If  Amy  didn't  need 
me,  I  know  you  would  not  have  come." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  can't  wait  to  ride  up  with  you,"  Paul 
apologized.  "You  see,  I'm  only  here  between  ap- 
pointments, and  — " 

"I  understand.  Besides,  I  must  see  Mr.  Atwood 
first." 

She  mounted  hurriedly  to  the  billiard-room  where 
Craig  must  still  be  at  work,  but  hesitated  on  the 
threshold.  The  door  was  half  open,  and,  unseen 
herself,  she  saw  both  painter  and  sitter.  Virginia 
Hepworth  had  dropped  her  pose  and  had  come  behind 
Craig's  chair.  Neither  spoke,  though  his  brush  was 
idle.  They  merely  faced  the  canvas  in  a  silence,  the 
long-standing  intimacy  of  which  stabbed  Jean  with  a 
jealous  pang  and  sent  her  away  with  her  message 
unspoken. 

She  trusted  Craig,  but  she  could  not  trust  herself, 
and  deemed  it  the  part  of  wisdom  to  leave  word 
with  the  dispassionate  butler  that  a  friend's  sickness 
would  prevent  her  going  to  the  studio. 


XXVII 

JEAN  entered  the  Lorna  Doone  with  a  sense  of 
having  known  the  place  in  some  former  life.  Its 
braggart  onyx,  its  rugs,  its  palms,  all  the  veneer 
which  went  to  make  for  "tone"  —  that  fetich  of  the 
dentist  —  greeted  her  with  a  luster  scarcely  dimmed ; 
the  negro  hall-boy  flashed  a  toothful  smile  of  recogni- 
tion; and  even  a  scratch,  which  their  moving  had 
left  on  the  green  denim  by  the  flat  door,  had  its  keen 
associations. 

It  was  a  relief  to  lay  eyes  upon  Amy,  who  had  no 
close  relationship  to  this  dead  yet  risen  past.  Amy, 
poor  wight,  seemed  related  to  nothing  familiar. 
Easily  flooding  tears,  which  gushed  afresh  at  sight 
of  Jean,  had  washed  her  prettiness  away. 

"I  knew  you'd  come,"  she  whispered,  clinging 
desperately.  "Paul  thought  it  was  no  use  to  ask, 
but  I  made  him  go.  You're  not  mad  at  me,  Jean, 
for  sending  ?  I've  nobody  else  — •  not  a  soul." 

Jean  soothed  her  as  she  would  a  child,  and  lead- 
ing her  into  a  bedroom  close  at  hand,  made  her  lie 
down.  No  sooner  did  her  head  touch  the  pillow, 
however,  than  she  struggled  up  again. 

"I  can't  lie  still,"  she  pleaded.  "Don't  make  me 
lie  still.  I  tossed  here  all  night.  I  can't  rest,  I  must 

296 


THE   CRUCIBLE  297 

talk.  I  want  you  to  know  what's  happened.  I  want 
you  to  tell  me  what  to  do.  I  must  do  something. 
It  can't  go  on.  I'll  lose  my  mind.  I'll  die." 

Jean  drew  the  woebegone  figure  to  her. 

"Tell  me,  Amy,"  she  said  gently.  "Perhaps  it 
isn't  as  black  as  it  seems." 

Amy  rocked  herself  disconsolately. 

"It's  blacker  than  it  seems,"  she  lamented.  "Oh, 
if  I'd  never  taken  the  flat !  Fred  never  wanted 
me  to  do  it.  I've  only  myself  to  thank.  I  didn't 
know  when  I  was  well  ofF." 

"But  what  has  the  flat  to  do  with  your  trouble  ?" 

"  Everything.  I  thought  it  would  be  heaven  to  keep 
house,  —  my  own  house, — but  it's  been  a  hell.  Fred 
said  we  couldn't  afford  a  girl,  though  I  never  saw  why, 
for  he's  done  splendid  in  his  new  territory.  And  he 
didn't  like  my  cooking!  I  only  learned  the  plain 
things  at  the  refuge,  you  know,  and  he's  been  pam- 
pered, living  so  much  at  hotels.  Somehow  I  never 
can  do  things  his  way.  Traveling  men  think  a  lot 
of  their  stomachs,  and  Fred  is  more  particular  than 
most." 

Jean  began  to  comprehend  the  sordid  little  tragedy. 

"But  you'll  learn,"  she  comforted.  "Make  Fred 
buy  you  a  first-class  cook-book.  Try  the  recipes 
by  yourself  till  you  succeed.  Don't  feed  him  on  the 
experiments." 

"I  did  try  by  myself.  I  practiced  on  a  Welsh 
rabbit,  and  I  thought  I  had  it  down  fine.  So  I  sur- 
prised him  one  night  after  the  theater  when  he 


298  THE   CRUCIBLE 

came  home  hungry.  He  said  it  wasn't  fit  for  a  h-h- 
hog!" 

Jean's  indignation  boiled  over. 

"It  was  a  thousand  times  too  good  for  him,"  she 
cried. 

"Don't,"  begged  Amy.  "I  didn't  blame  him  after 
I  tasted  it.  The  thing  I  do  blame  him  for  and  can't 
bear  is  the  way  he  criticises  my  looks.  I  can't  always 
look  pretty  and  do  my  work.  Fred  seems  to  think  I 
ought,  and  is  always  holding  up  Stella  to  me  without 
stopping  to  remember  that  she  has  nothing  to  do  but 
sing  and  change  her  clothes." 

"Stella!     Do  you  let  Stella  Wilkes  come  here?" 

"Fred  made  me  ask  her.     She's  got  a  flat  herself 

—  just  a  common  sort  of  a  place  that  she  rents  fur- 
nished, with  two  chorus-girls.     She's  making  money 
now.     She  left  the  Coney  Island  beer-hall  for  one  of 
those  cheap  Fourteenth  Street  theaters.     Fred  says 
she's  bound  to  make  a  hit.     He's  crazy  about  her," 

—  her  voice  rose  to  a  wail,  —  "just  crazy  !" 
Jean  held  the  shaking  form  closer. 

"Aren't  you  mistaken  ?"  she  said,  without  convic- 
tion. 

"Mistaken!"  The  girl  wrenched  herself  erect. 
"Last  night  I  saw  her  in  his  arms." 

"Amy!" 

"  I  saw  them  —  here  —  in  my  own  house  !     Stella 
was  here  when  Fred  came  home  from  Newark  — 
I  guess  she  knew  he  was  coming  —  and  he  made  her 
take  off  her  things  and  stay  to  supper.     It  wasn't 


THE   CRUCIBLE  299 

a  good  supper.  The  gas-range  wouldn't  work,  and 
I'd  forgotten  to  put  Fred's  beer  in  the  ice-box.  I 
was  hot  and  cross  from  standing  over  the  fire,  and 
hadn't  a  minute  to  do  my  hair.  I  saw  Fred  looking 
from  me  to  Stella,  who  was  dressed  to  kill,  and  I 
knew  what  he  thought.  I  could  have  cried  right 
there.  I  don't  know  how  I  got  through  the  meal,  but 
it  ended  somehow,  and  they  went  off  into  the  parlor, 
leaving  me  to  clear  away  the  things.  I  washed  the 
dishes  up,  for,  company  or  not,  I  hate  to  let  them 
stand  over  until  morning;  and  then  fixed  myself  a 
little  to  go  where  they  were.  I  must  have  got 
through  sooner  than  they  expected.  I  saw  him  kiss 
her  as  plain  as  I  see  you." 

"Did  they  know  you  saw  them  ?" 

"I  let  them  know,"  rejoined  Amy,  with  a  heart- 
breaking laugh.  "I'll  bet  her  ears  burn  yet.  I 
ordered  her  out  of  the  house,  and  she  went,  double- 
quick!" 

"And  he?" 

The  light  died  out  of  Amy's  face. 

"Fred  went,  too,"  she  said  numbly.  "I  haven't 
seen  him  since.  I'll  never  see  him  again,  I  guess. 
I'm  the  most  miserable  girl  alive  !  What  shall  I  do  ? 
What  shall  I  do?" 

"Divorce  the  scoundrel,"  counseled  Jean, 
promptly.  "I'll  take  care  of  the  lawyer.  I'll  em- 
ploy detectives,  too,  if  you  need  more  evidence,  as  I 
suppose  you  will.  He  must  be  made  to  pay  alimony. 
But  you've  nothing  to  fear,  even  if  you  don't  get  a 


300  THE   CRUCIBLE 

cent.  You  earned  your  living  once;  you  can  do  it 
again.  Be  rid  of  him  at  once." 

Amy  turned  her  face  away. 

"You  don't  know,"  she  moaned. 

"What  is  it  I  don't  know?" 

"The  truth  —  the  real  truth." 

"You  mean  you  still  care  for  him  ?" 

"  I  do  care  for  him  —  I  always  shall  —  but  that's 
not  what  I  mean.  I  can't  divorce  Fred.  I'm  not  — 
not  his  wife." 

Jean  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"You're  not  married !" 

A  spasm  of  anguish  racked  the  shrinking  form. 

"Not  —  not  yet." 

Jean  stood  in  rigid  dismay,  striving  to  read  this 
enigma. 

"Not  yet,"  she  repeated  slowly.  "Did  you  be- 
lieve, Amy,  could  you  believe,  he  ever  meant  to  deal 
honestly  with  you  ?" 

"Yes!"  The  girl  turned  passionately.  "Yes, 
yes,  a  thousand  times  yes  !  He  couldn't  at  first.  His 
wife  had  divorced  him,  and  he  wasn't  allowed  to 
remarry  for  three  years.  The  time  wasn't  up  when 
we  met  again;  it  wasn't  up  when  we  began  to  live 
together.  It  seemed  so  long  to  wait.  I  trusted  him. 
I  loved  him." 

"  But  now  ?     He  is  free  now  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  does  nothing!" 

"We— we  put  it  off." 


THE   CRUCIBLE  301 

"You  mean,  he  put  it  off.  Amy!  Amy!  Can't 
you  realize  that  he  is  worthless  ?  Can't  you  under- 
stand that  you  must  root  him  out  of  your  life  ?  Face 
this  like  a  brave  woman.  I'll  help  you  make  a  fresh 
start.  Be  independent.  Cut  yourself  off  from  him 
completely.  Do  it  now  —  now  !  " 

Amy's  haggard  eyes  were  unresponsive. 

"It's  too  late." 

"No,  no!" 

"It's  too  late.  I  can't  cut  myself  off  from  him. 
Jean ! "  Her  voice  quavered  to  shrill  intensity. 
"Jean  !  Don't  you  —  don't  you  see!" 

Jean  saw  and  was  answered,  and  her  womanhood 
bade  her  sweep  the  weakling  to  her  breast. 

"I've  kept  it  from  him,"  wept  Amy.  "He  hates 
children  about.  I  did  not  dare  tell  him." 

"I  dare,"  cried  Jean,  like  a  trumpet-call.  "And  I 
will." 

Her  assurance  quieted  the  girl  like  an  anodyne, 
and  presently  she  slept.  Sundown,  twilight,  and 
night  succeeded.  The  watcher's  muscles  grew 
cramped,  but  whenever  she  sought  to  loose  the 
sleeper's  clasp,  Amy  whimpered  like  a  feverish  child, 
and  so  she  sat  compassionately  on  aiding  nature's 
healing  work.  Meanwhile  she  tried  to  frame  her 
appeal  to  the  drummer.  How  or  when  she  should 
reach  him  she  knew  not;  Amy  must  bring  about  a 
meeting.  She  did  not  believe  that  he  had  definitely 
deserted  his  victim.  His  sample-cases  in  the  hall, 
his  innumerable  pipes,  his  clothing  strewn  about  the 


302  THE   CRUCIBLE 

bedroom,  all  argued  a  return.  She  longed  that  he 
might  come  now  while  her  wrath  burned  hottest  and 
she  might  scorch  him  to  a  sense  of  his  infamy.  It 
could  be  done.  She  was  confident  that  she  could  stir 
him  somehow.  Surely,  he  was  not  all  beast.  Some- 
where underneath  the  selfish  hide  lurked  a  torpid 
microscopic  soul,  some  germ  of  pity,  some  spark  of 
manhood. 

Then  Amy  awoke,  refreshed,  heartened,  yet  still 
spineless,  clinging,  and  dependent;  and  Jean  threw 
herself  into  the  task  of  cheering  this  mockery  of  a 
home.  She  made  Amy  bathe  her  dreadful  eyes,  ar- 
range her  hair,  don  a  dress  the  drummer  liked; 
and  then  set  her  ordering  the  neglected  flat,  while  she 
herself  conjured  up  a  meal  from  the  unpromising 
materials  which  a  search  of  the  larder  disclosed.  The 
little  kitchen  was  haunted  with  ghosts  of  her  other 
life.  The  dentist's  astonishing  ice-cream  freezer 
and  the  patent  dish-washer  stared  her  in  the  face, 
and  her  hunt  for  the  tea-canister  revealed  the  kit  of 
tools  she  had  bought  to  surprise  him.  Not  a  utensil 
hung  here  which  was  not  of  their  choosing. 

And  so  it  was  with  the  other  rooms.  When  she 
came  to  lay  the  cloth,  its  grape-vine  pattern  greeted 
her  like  a  forgotten  acquaintance;  the  colonial  side- 
board and  the  massive  table,  as  formerly,  united  to 
resist  invasion  of  their  tiny  stronghold.  The  silver 
candelabra,  restored  to  the  giver,  still  flanked  Grimes's 
Louis  XV  clock  upon  the  mantelpiece;  the  galaxy 
of  American  poets  hung  where  she  had  appointed. 


THE   CRUCIBLE  303 

The  Jean  who  had  done  these  things,  lived  this  exist- 
ence, was  a  distant,  shadowy  personality,  and  the 
feat  of  making  her  intelligible  to  another  seemed 
more  than  ever  impossible.  She  rejoiced  that  she 
had  locked  this  chapter  from  Craig.  Her  present 
self  was  her  real  self,  the  Jean  he  idealized,  the  real 
Jean. 

The  belated  supper  braced  Amy's  mood.  She 
became  apologetic  for  the  drummer  and  sanguine 
of  the  future. 

"Don't  be  harsh  with  Fred,"  she  entreated. 
"Tell  him  the  truth,  but  don't  hurt  his  pride. 
Fred  is  so  proud.  He's  the  proudest  man  I  ever 
knew.  Besides,  I'm  every  bit  as  much  to  blame. 
Stroke  him  the  right  way,  and  he'll  do  almost  any- 
thing you  want.  I  could  have  managed  him,  if  I'd 
been  well.  He  means  all  right.  He'll  do  right,  too. 
I  wish  —  I  wish  you  could  see  us  married,  Jean.  If 
he  would  only  come  now,  we  could  get  a  minister  in 
and  have  it  over  to-night." 

Jean  hoped  as  fervently  as  Amy  for  the  drummer's 
coming,  and  in  this  hope  lingered  till  she  could  wait 
no  longer. 

"Go  to  bed,"  she  charged.  "Sitting  up  won't 
hurry  him  home.  If  he  comes,  don't  weep, 
don't  reproach  him,  don't  plead  with  him,  don't 
-  above  all  —  don't  apologize.  Keep  him  guess- 
ing for  once,  and  leave  the  talking  to  me.  Find 
out  in  some  way  where  I  can  see  him.  If  he  will  be 
home  to-morrow  evening,  I'll  come  here;  if  there's 


3o4  THE   CRUCIBLE 

a  chance  of  catching  him  earlier  at  the  office  of  his 
firm,  let  me  know  and  I'll  go  there.  Meanwhile  say 
nothing,  but  look  your  best." 

Amy  promised  all  things,  and  Jean  hurried  out, 
horrified  at  the  lateness  of  the  hour.  The  long 

O 

downtown  journey  at  this  hour  daunted  her  till  she 
shook  off  the  atmosphere  of  the  Lorna  Doone  suffi- 
ciently to  recall  that  penny-saving  was  no  more 
a  vital  factor  in  her  life.  Cabs  were  not  wont  to 
stalk  custom  in  this  neighborhood,  however,  and  even 
a  search  of  the  nearest  cross-street,  where  business  pre- 
dominated, was  fruitless.  As  she  hesitated,  scouring 
the  scene,  the  attentions  of  a  group  of  corner  loafers 
became  pointed,  and,  believing  one  of  them  about  to 
accost  her,  she  darted  down  a  convenient  stair  of  the 
subway  and  boarded  a  train  which  was  just  about 
to  depart.  She  rode  past  two  stations  before  she 
discovered  that  in  her  haste  she  had  entered  from  an 
uptown  platform. 

Dismounting,  she  began  a  wait  in  the  whited  suffo- 
cating cavern,  which  seemed  endless.  Under  the 
hard  glitter  of  the  arc  lights  the  raw  flamboyant  ad- 
vertisements of  soaps,  whiskies,  hair  tonics,  liver  pills, 
and  department-store  specials  became  a  physical 
pain.  The  voices  of  the  ticket-choppers,  gossiping 
across  the  tracks  of  the  President  whom  they  called 
by  a  diminutive  of  his  first  name,  were  like  the  drone 
of  monster  flies  in  a  bottle.  Then  the  green  and  yel- 
low eyes  of  her  dilatory  train  gleamed  far  down  the 
tunnel,  and  the  rails  quickened  and  murmured  under 


THE   CRUCIBLE  305 

its  onset.  This  show  of  speed  was  delusive,  however. 
They  halted  leisurely  at  platforms  where  no  one  got 
off  or  on,  and  loitered  mysteriously  in  the  bowels 
of  the  earth  where  were  no  stations  whatsoever. 
The  system  seemed  hopelessly  out  of  joint  and  the 
handful  of  passengers  sighed  or  swore,  according  to 
sex,  and  tried  with  grotesque  noddings  to  nap 
through  the  tedious  delays.  Then  more  waits  and 
more  stations  succeeded,  and  the  ranks  of  the  suffer- 
ers thinned  until  only  Jean  and  a  red-nosed  woman, 
who  smelled  of  gin  and  thirsted  for  conversation,  were 
left. 

At  last  came  release,  and,  spurred  forward  by  the 
waxing  friendliness  of  the  red-nose,  who  also  alighted, 
she  hurried  to  the  surface.  The  remaining  distance 
was  short,  and  in  five  minutes  she  was  rummaging 
her  shopping-bag  for  a  latch-key.  The  servants 
were  of  course  abed.  Not  a  light  was  visible.  All 
the  house  apparently  slumbered  in  after-midnight 
peace.  She  experienced  a  burglarious  sense  of  ad- 
venture in  fitting  her  key  to  the  lock,  and  a  guilty 
start  when  the  heavy  door  escaped  her  fingers  and 
shut  with  a  resounding  slam.  At  the  same  instant 
a  light  streamed  from  the  library  at  the  farther  end 
of  the  hall,  disclosing  Julie  haughtily  erect  in  the 
opening,  and  Craig's  stricken  face  just  behind. 


XXVIII 

"  IT  is  I,  Craig,"  Jean  called.  "  Surely  you  haven't 
worried  ?" 

The  man  groaned. 

"Worried!"  he  cried.  "What  does  it  all  mean, 
Jean?" 

He  would  have  come  out  to  her,  but  Julie  laid  a 
restraining  hand  on  his  sleeve,  saying,  — 

"Keep  yourself  in  hand,  Craig  dear." 

Jean  moved  quickly  down  the  hall  and  confronted 
them. 

"What  is  this  mystery?"  she  demanded.  "Did 
not  the  servant  deliver  my  message?" 

Mrs.  Van  Ostade  signed  for  her  to  enter  the  library. 
She  passed  in  with  a  bewildered  look  at  Atwood, 
who  walked  uncertainly  to  the  fireplace  and  stood 
gazing  down  into  its  lifeless  grate.  His  sister  shut  the 
door  and  put  her  back  against  it. 

"Didn't  you  receive  my  message?"  Jean  again 
addressed  Craig.  "Miss  Hepworth  was  with  you, 
and  I  disliked  to  interrupt.  There  was  no  time  for 
a  note.  I  left  too  hurriedly." 

"With  whom  ?"  The  question  was  Julie's  and  was 
delivered  like  a  blow. 

Jean  faced  her. 

306 


THE   CRUCIBLE  307 

"I  went  alone/*  she  replied  quietly.  "Does  it 
matter?" 

Mrs.  Van  Ostade  flung  out  an  imperious  finger. 

"Read  that  card  beside  you  on  the  desk,"  she 
directed.  " '  Paul  Bartlett,  D.D.S.  Crown  and  bridge 
work  a  specialty.'  Do  you  deny  meeting  that  person 
to-day?" 

"Certainly  not.  He  brought  word  that  a  sick 
friend  needed  me,  and  left  immediately  afterward." 

"And  you  have  not  seen  him  since?" 

"No."  Her  denial  rang  out  emphatically. 
"Craig,"  she  appealed,  "what  is  the  meaning  of  this 
catechism  ?  I  have  been  with  Amy  ever  since  I  left 
the  house.  She  is  in  great  trouble.  It  is  a  terrible 
story." 

"It  is  indeed,"  struck  in  Julie.  "Do  you  swallow 
it,  Craig  ?  Can  anybody !  Perhaps  now  you  will 
begin  to  use  the  reasoning  powers  which  your  infatua- 
tion for  this  adventuress  has  clouded.  How  could 
you  ever  have  trusted  her !  Wasn't  the  bare  fact  of 
the  reformatory  enough  ?" 

"Craig!"  Appeal,  reproach,  anguish,  all  blended 
in  that  bitter  cry. 

Atwood  disclaimed  responsibility  with  a  gesture. 

"Your  mother,"  he  said. 

"Yes;  your  mother,"  Julie  echoed.  "Before  she 
sat  ten  minutes  in  this  room  she  had  told  all  she 
knew  —  do  you  understand  me?  —  all  she  knew! 
I  was  your  friend  till  then.  I  don't  pretend  I  was 
not  cut  to  the  heart  by  Craig's  mad  marriage.  I 


308  THE   CRUCIBLE 

would  have  given  my  right  hand  to  prevent  it.  Hadn't 
I  seen  you  before  you  ever  entered  his  studio  ? 
Didn't  I  know  how  vulgar  your  associates  were  ? 
Perhaps  your  'Amy'  was  the  drunken  little  fool 
who  created  a  scene  in  the  restaurant  where  I  made 
your  acquaintance  ?  But  I  tried  to  put  that  out  of 
mind  when  I  accepted  the  marriage.  I  took  you  into 
my  own  home ;  I  hoped  to  school  you  to  fill  your  new 
place  in  life  worthily." 

"And  have  I  not?"  Jean  interpolated  proudly. 
"Have  I  shamed  you  or  him  ?" 

Julie  scorned  reply. 

"  But  I  knew  nothing  of  the  refuge  story,"  she  railed 
on.  "I  never  suspected  the  awful  truth  when  you 
evaded  every  question  I  asked  about  your  girlhood. 
I  knew  your  past  had  been  common;  I  could  not 
dream  it  had  also  been  criminal." 

"Julie!"   Atwood  entreated. 

"The  time  has  come  for  plain  dealing,"  she  an- 
swered him.  "You  will  live  to  thank  me  for  open- 
ing your  eyes." 

Jean  took  a  step  nearer  her  accuser. 

"Let  her  go  on,"  she  challenged  contemptuously. 
"She  only  distorts  what  I  have  told  you  already." 

Julie's  dark  face  grew  thunderous. 

"Do  I !"  she  retorted.  "Let  us  see.  What  have 
you  told  Craig  of  this  man  Bartlett  ?  What  have  you 
told  him  of  the  flat  at  the  Lorna  Doone  ?  Where  are 
your  glib  answers  now  ?  Can  you  suppose  that,  know- 
ing your  history,  I  would  suspect  nothing  when  Sat- 


THE   CRUCIBLE  309 

terlee  put  you  out  of  countenance  at  the  Copley 
Studios  ?  A  double,  indeed !  From  that  moment 
you  avoided  the  place.  From  that  moment  every 
shift  of  yours  strengthened  my  belief  that  I  had 
stumbled  on  one  more  murky  chapter  of  your  life. 
Satterlee's  memory  improved;  he  recalled  your  twin's 
name.  Thereafter  my  investigations  were  child's 
play.  Can  you,  dare  you,  deny  that  you  were  known 
at  the  Lorna  Doone  as  Bartlett's  wife?" 

Jean's  face  grew  pale ;  Craig's,  her  agonized  glance 
perceived,  was  whiter  still. 

"It  was  a  mistake,"  she  answered.  "They 
thought  - 

"Ah!"  Julie's  cry  was  long-drawn,  triumphant. 
"Do  you  hear,  Craig?  She  admits  that  she  was 
known  as  Mrs.  Bartlett.  My  poor  brother  !  By  her 
own  confession  you  have  married  either  a  discarded 
mistress  or  a  bigamist!" 

Jean's  brain  whirled.  That  passion  could  put 
such  a  monstrous  construction  on  her  conduct,  passed 
belief. 

"Lies !"   she  gasped. 

"Prove  them  false !" 

"Lies,  cruel  lies  !" 

Atwood  sprang  to  her  side. 

"I  could  not  believe  them,  Jean,"  he  cried.  "You 
are  too  honest,  too  pure  — ' 

"  Prove  them  false  !"     Julie  challenged  again. 

Jean  turned  her  back  upon  her. 

"This  is  between  you  and  me,  Craig,"  she  pleaded, 


310  THE   CRUCIBLE 

struggling  for  self-control.  "  I  am  the  honest  woman 
you  have  always  believed  me.  I  have  concealed  noth- 
ing shameful.  My  only  thought  was  to  spare  you 
pain.  You  shall  know  now,  everything;  but  it  is 
a  story  for  your  ears  alone.  It  concerns  us  only, 
dear,  our  happiness,  our  love." 

He  cast  a  look  of  entreaty  at  Julie,  who  met  it 
with  an  acid  smile. 

"You  are  wax  in  her  hands,"  she  taunted.  "She 
can  cajole  you  into  thinking  black  is  white." 

"No,  no,"  he  protested.  "You  are  unjust  to  her, 
Julie.  I  know  her  as  you  cannot.  She  is  the  soul  of 
truth." 

Jean's  heart  leaped  at  his  words. 

"God  bless  you  for  that!"  she  exclaimed.  "Let 
her  hear,  then  !  Why  should  I  fear  her  now?" 

The  dentist's  attentions  at  the  boarding-house, 
their  walks  and  theater-goings,  his  help  when  the 
department  store  cast  her  out,  their  engagement,  the 
taking  and  furnishing  of  a  flat,  the  apparition  of  Stella, 
the  confession  and  the  crash  —  all  she  touched  upon 
without  false  shame,  without  attempt  to  gloss  her  free 
agency  and  responsibility.  She  dealt  gently  with 
Paul,  magnifying  his  virtues,  palliating  his  great  fault, 
bearing  witness  to  the  sincerity  of  his  remorse.  But 
Craig  she  could  not  spare,  pity  him  as  she  might. 
She  saw  his  drawn  face  wince  as  if  under  bodily  pain, 
and  before  she  ended  he  was  groping  for  a  chair.  She 
perceived,  as  she  had  feared,  that  an  ideal  was  gone 
from  him,  perhaps  the  dearest  ideal  of  all;  yet  she 


THE   CRUCIBLE  311 

did  not  realize  what  a  blow  she  had  struck  this 
stunned,  flaccid  figure  with  averted  head,  till,  break- 
ing the  long  silence  which  oppressed  the  room  when 
she  had  done,  he  asked,  — 

"Did  you  love  this  man,  Jean  ?" 

She  weighed  her  answer  painfully. 

"Not  as  we  know  love,  Craig,"  she  said. 

"You  would  have  sold  yourself  for  a  home  —  for 
a  flat  in  the  Lorna  Doone !  Where  was  your  re- 
membrance of  the  birches  then  ?" 

She  forgave  the  words  in  pity  for  the  pain  which 
begot  them.  She  forgot  Julie.  Nothing  in  life 
mattered,  if  love  were  lost.  A  great  devouring  fear 
lest  he  slip  from  her  drove  her  forward  and  flung  her 
kneeling  at  his  side. 

"You  were  with  me  always,  Craig,  always,"  she 
said  brokenly.  "  Is  it  too  hard  to  believe  ?  If  you 
try  to  paint  an  ideal  and  the  picture  falls  short,  does 
that  make  your  ideal  less  dear  ?  What  hope  had  I 
ever  to  meet  you  again  ?  How  could  I  dream  that 
I  stood  for  more  in  your  thoughts  than  a  heedless 
fugitive  of  whom  you  were  well  rid  ?  You  could  not 
know  that  you  had  given  me  courage  for  the  guard- 
house and  the  prison;  made  me  strive  to  become  the 
girl  you  thought  me;  changed  the  whole  trend  of  my 
foolish  life  !  How  then  have  I  been  unfaithful  ?  Was 
it  treachery  to  you,  whom  I  never  looked  to  see  again, 
that  when  a  good  man  —  yes ;  at  heart,  Paul  is  a 
good  man  —  offered  me  a  way  of  escape  I  should 
take  it  ?  You  ask  me  if  I  would  have  sold  myself 


3i2  THE   CRUCIBLE 

for  a  home,  for  that  poor  little  flat  in  the  Lorna  Doone 
whose  cheapness  I  never  appreciated  till  to-night  —  I 
answer  no.  I  know  now  that  I  did  not  love  him; 
but  I  did  not  know  it  then.  It  was  left  for  you  to 
teach  me." 

He  made  no  response  when  she  ceased.  His 
hands  lay  nerveless  under  hers;  his  eyes  still  brooded 
on  the  fireless  hearth.  So  for  a  hundred  heart-beats 
they  remained  together. 

"You  believe  me,  Craig?" 

"Yes,"  he  wrenched  forth  at  last. 

Jean  slowly  withdrew  her  hands. 

"But  you  cannot  wholly  forgive  ?" 

He  had  no  answer. 

"I  can  say  no  more,"  she  added,  rising;  and  came 
again  face  to  face  with  Julie,  who  made  way  for  her 
at  the  door.  "I  leave  your  house  to-morrow,  Mrs. 
Van  Ostade.  If  I  could,  I  would  go  to-night." 

Free  of  gnawing  secrecies  at  last !  The  thought 
brought  a  specious  sense  of  peace.  Julie's  yoke 
broken  !  Her  step  on  the  stair  grew  buoyant.  The 
battle  desired  by  MacGregor  had  been  fought. 
Precipitated  by  causes  with  which  neither  had  reck- 
oned, waged  with  a  fierce  heat  alien  to  art,  Craig's 
emancipation  had  nevertheless  been  at  stake.  The 
break  had  come,  and  it  was  beyond  remedy.  He 
must  cleave  to  his  wife. 

Too  excited  for  sleep,  she  began  at  once  her  prepa- 
rations for  quitting  Julie's  hateful  roof,  and  one  after 
another  overcame  the  obstacles  which  packing  in  the 


THE   CRUCIBLE  313 

small  hours  entailed.  Each  overflowing  chair,  every 
yawning  door  and  drawer,  testified  the  increased  com- 
plexity of  her  life  and  the  bigness  of  her  task.  The 
bride  of  a  single  dinner-dress  had  become  under 
Craig's  lavish  generosity  the  mistress  of  great  pos- 
sessions. There  were  gowns  of  many  uses  and  many 
hues;  hats  and  blouses  in  extravagant  number; 
shoes  —  a  little  regiment  of  shoes  aligned  neatly  in 
their  trees;  costly  trifles  for  her  desk;  books  and  pic- 
tures in  breath-taking  profusion. 

She  now  remembered  that  her  one  trunk,  with 
Craig's  many  upon  which  she  depended,  was  stored 
on  the  top  floor,  and  she  debated  whether  to  wake  one 
of  the  servants  or  await  her  husband's  help.  In  the 
end  she  did  neither.  She  disliked  Mrs.  Van  Ostade's 
servants,  one  and  all,  suspecting  them  of  tale-bearing, 
and  after  a  vain  wait  for  Craig,  who  still  lingered 
below,  she  went  about  the  business  for  herself.  It 
was  a  difficult  matter  to  accomplish  without  rousing 
the  house,  and  when,  after  much  travail  of  mind  and 
disused  muscle,  she  effected  the  transfer  of  her  own 
trunk,  she  was  tempted  to  do  what  she  could  with  it 
and  let  her  other  belongings  follow  as  they  might. 
This  course,  also,  she  rejected.  Nothing  except  a 
complete  evacuation  would  satisfy,  and  she  craved 
the  joy  of  leaving  Julie's  bridal  gift  conspicuously  un- 
packed. 

By  three  o'clock  all  was  done,  and  as  she  flung  her- 
self wearily  upon  her  bed  she  heard  Craig's  leaden 
step  mount  the  stair.  He  entered  their  living-room, 


THE   CRUCIBLE 

which,  save  for  one  or  two  small  articles  he  would 
scarcely  miss,  she  had  not  dismantled,  switched  on 
the  electricity,  and  after  a  pause  closed  the  door  of 
the  dressing-room  connecting  with  the  darkened 
chamber  where  she  lay.  Jean  heard  him  light  a  cigar- 
ette and  drop  heavily  into  a  chair,  which  he  abandoned 
almost  at  once  to  pace  the  floor.  The  sound  of  his 
pacing  went  on  and  on,  varied  only  by  the  scrape  of 
matches  as  he  lit  cigarette  after  cigarette,  the  pene- 
trating oriental  scent  of  which  began  in  time  to  seep 
into  her  own  room  and  infect  her  with  his  unrest. 

She  took  alarm  to  find  him  so  implacable.  Did  his 
sister  sway  him  still  ?  Had  Julie  poisoned  the  truth 
with  the  acid  of  her  hate  ?  Might  she  lose  him  after 
all  ?  She  could  scarcely  keep  herself  from  calling 
his  name.  And  the  monotonous  footfall  went  on 
and  on,  on  and  on,  trampling  her  heart,  grinding  its 
iteration  into  her  sick  brain.  Then,  when  it  seemed 
endurable  no  longer,  it  became  a  sedative,  and  she 
slept  to  dream  that  she  was  a  new  inmate  of  Cottage 
No.  6,  with  a  tyrannous,  vindictive  matron  whose  face 
was  the  face  of  Julie  Van  Ostade. 

She  stirred  with  the  day  and  lay  with  shut  eyes, 
tasting  the  blissful  reality  of  familiar  things.  This 
was  no  cell-like  room,  no  refuge  pallet.  She  had 
only  to  stretch  out  her  hand  —  thus  —  to  the  bed 
beside  her  own,  and  touch  —  ?  Nothing  !  Craig's 
bed  stood  precisely  as  the  maid  had  prepared  it  for 
his  coming.  Was  he  pacing  yet  ?  She  listened,  but 
no  sound  came.  Creeping  to  the  living-room  door 


THE   CRUCIBLE  315 

she  listened  again ;  then  turned  the  knob.  Empty  ! 
The  untouched  pillows  of  the  divan,  the  overflowing 
ash-tray,  the  lingering  haze,  bespoke  an  all-night  vigil. 
He  had  not  only  let  the  sun  go  down  upon  his  wrath, 
he  had  watched  it  rise  again !  An  answering  glow 
kindled  in  her  bruised  pride. 

Left  rudderless  by  his  silence,  she  cast  about  eagerly 
for  some  new  plan  of  action  while  she  dressed.  Last 
night  she  had  meant  to  order  her  things  sent  to  the 
studio  until  they  could  plan  the  future,  but  that  course 
seemed  feasible  no  longer.  She  searched  her  pocket- 
book  for  funds  and  found  only  tickets  for  a  popular 
comedy.  She  smiled  upon  them  grimly.  Comedy, 
forsooth  !  Here  was  more  comic  stuff —  the  scream- 
ing farce  of  woman's  lot !  Flouted,  she  had  no  choice 
but  to  fold  her  hands  and  wait  while  the  dominant 
male  in  his  wisdom  decided  her  destiny. 

At  her  accustomed  hour  she  touched  the  bell  for 
her  coffee,  and  with  sharpened  observation  saw  at 
once  that,  unlike  other  days,  the  tray  held  but  a 
single  service. 

"Mr.  Atwood  breakfasted  downstairs?"  she  said 
carelessly. 

The  maid's  eyes  roved  the  dissipated  scene  of  At- 
wood's  reflections  and  lit  upon  a  strapped  trunk 
which  Jean  had  for  convenience  pulled  into  the  dress- 
ing-room. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "Mr.  Craig  came  down 
very  early." 

"Did  he  go  out?" 


3i6  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"More  than  an  hour  ago." 

Jean  let  the  coffee  go  cold  and  crumbled  her  toast 
untasted.  How  could  she  endure  this  passivity ! 
Must  she  forever  be  the  spectator  ?  Amidst  these 
drab  reveries  her  eyes  rested  for  some  minutes  upon 
the  topmost  of  the  morning  papers,  which  the  maid 
had  brought  as  usual  with  the  breakfast,  before  one 
of  its  by  no  means  modest  head-lines  resolved  itself 
into  the  words, — 

MURDERED  IN  CENTRAL  PARK 

Then  a  familiar  name  and  a  familiar  address  leaped 
from  the  context,  and  she  seized  breathlessly  upon 
the  brief  double-leaded  paragraph  and  read  it  twice 
from  end  to  end. 

"The  northern  extremity  of  Central  Park,"  ran 
the  account,  "became  last  night  the  scene  of  a  tragedy 
which  its  loneliness  and  insufficient  lighting  have  long 
invited.  Shortly  after  midnight  the  body  of  Frederic 
Chapman,  a  commercial  traveler  in  the  employ  of 
Webster,  Cassell  &  Co.,  residing  in  the  Lorna  Doone 
apartments,  not  ten  blocks  from  the  spot  where  he 
met  his  death,  was  found  with  a  bullet  through  the 
heart.  Up  to  the  time  of  going  to  press,  no  trace 
of  the  murderer  or  weapon  had  been  discovered, 
although  the  physician  summoned  by  Officer  Burns, 
who  came  upon  the  body  in  his  regular  rounds,  was 
of  the  opinion  that  life  had  been  extinct  less  than 
an  hour.  Both  precinct  and  central  office  detectives 


THE   CRUCIBLE  317 

are  at  work  upon  the  case.     Mr.  Chapman  leaves 
a  young  widow,  who  is  prostrated  by  the  blow." 

Jean  sprang  to  her  feet,  her  own  woes  forgotten  in 
her  horrified  perception  of  Amy's  dire  need.  Tearing 
out  the  paragraph,  she  penciled  across  its  head-lines, 
"I  have  gone  to  her,"  and  enclosing  it  in  an  envelope 
addressed  to  Atwood,  set  it  conspicuously  on  his 
desk. 


XXIX 

EARLY  as  she  reached  the  Lorna  Doone,  Jean 
found  others  before  her,  drawn  by  the  morbid  lure 
of  sudden  death.  The  hawkers  of  "extras"  already 
filled  the  street  with  their  cries;  open-mouthed 
children  swarmed  about  the  entrance  of  the  apart- 
ment-house as  if  this,  not  the  park,  were  the  historic 
ground;  while  Amy's  narrow  hall  was  choked  with 
reporters,  amidst  whom  Amy  herself,  colorless,  bright- 
eyed,  babbled  wearilessly  of  the  drummer's  virtues. 

"He  was  the  best  salesman  they  ever  had,"  she 
was  saying.  "  Put  that  in  the  paper,  won't  you  ? 
In  another  year  he'd  most  likely  have  had  an  interest 
in  the  business.  They  couldn't  get  along  without 
him,  they  said.  He  was  the  best  salesman  they  ever 
had.  People  just  had  to  buy  when  Fred  called.  He 
seemed  to  hypnotize  customers.  One  man  - 
and  she  rambled  into  the  story  of  a  conquest,  begin- 
ning nowhere  and  ending  in  fatuity  with  the  unceasing 
refrain,  "He  was  the  best  salesman  they  ever  had." 

The  sight  of  Jean  shunted  her  from  this  theme  to 
self-pity.  She  clung  to  her  hysterically,  declaring 
she  was  her  only  friend  and  calling  upon  the  reporters 
to  witness  what  a  friend  she  was !  They  had,  of 
course,  heard  of  Francis  Craig  Atwood,  the  great  art- 
ist ?  This  was  his  wife  —  her  old  friend,  her  only 

318 


THE   CRUCIBLE  319 

friend.  Jean  urged  her  gently  toward  the  bedroom, 
and,  shutting  the  door  upon  her,  turned  and  asked  the 
pressmen  to  go.  They  assented  and  left  immediately, 
save  one  of  boyish  face  who  delayed  some  minutes 
for  sympathetic  comment  on  the  tragedy. 

"I'm  only  a  cub  reporter,  Mrs.  Atwood,"  he  added, 
"and  I  have  to  take  back  something.  That's  the 
rule  in  our  office  —  get  the  story  or  get  out.  Poor 
Mrs.  Chapman  was  too  upset  to  give  me  anything  of 
value.  Perhaps  you'd  be  willing  to  help  me  make 
good?" 

"I  know  nothing  but  what  the  papers  have  told," 
Jean  replied. 

"I  don't  mean  the  shooting  —  merely  a  fact  or 
two  about  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chapman,  whom  you  know 
so  well.  When  were  they  married  ?" 

"I  can't  tell  you,"  she  said  hastily.  "I  —  I  was 
not  present." 

"  But  approximately  ?  I  don't  want  the  dates. 
She  looks  a  bride,  and  you  know  the  public  is  inter- 
ested in  brides.  They  haven't  lived  here  long,  I 
suppose  ?" 

"No;  not  long,"  she  assented,  thankful  for  the 
loophole;  "a  few  weeks." 

"This  was  their  first  home  ?" 

"Practically.  They  boarded  for  a  time.  Excuse 
me  now,  please.  You  must  see  how  much  she  needs 
me." 

"She  is  lucky  to  have  you,  Mrs.  Atwood.  Girl- 
hood friends,  I  presume?" 


320  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"Yes,  yes.     Go  now,  please." 

She  turned  him  out  at  last  and  paused  an  instant 
to  brace  her  nerves  before  joining  Amy.  At  the  far 
end  of  the  hall  the  parlor  door  stood  ajar,  and  she 
saw  with  a  shiver  that  the  shades  were  down.  Then 
Amy  peered  from  the  bedroom  in  search  of  her,  a 
grief-stricken  figure  with  wringing  hands. 

"Don't  keep  me  in  here,"  she  moaned.  "Let  me 
walk,  walk."  And  she  moved  toward  the  darkened 
room. 

"Not  there!"  Jean  cried,  preventing  her.  "Not 
there!" 

Amy  stared  an  instant  and  then  uttered  a  laugh 
more  terrible  than  tears. 

"  He  is  not  in  the  parlor,"  she  replied.  "  They  took 
him  to  an  undertaker's.  There's  a  man  —  I  forgot 
to  tell  you  —  there's  a  man  from  the  undertaker's 
here  now.  He  wants  clothes,  black  clothes.  He's 
in  the  spare  room,  hunting.  I  —  I  couldn't  touch 
them.  I  told  him  to  look  for  himself.  You  help 
him,  Jean.  I  couldn't  touch  Fred's  things.  It 
seemed  —  oh,  I  just  couldn't !" 

Jean  let  her  wander  where  she  would,  and  opened 
the  guest-room  door.  A  heavy-jowled  man  pivoted 
about  at  her  entrance  and  stuffed  a  handful  of  letters 
into  a  pocket  of  one  of  the  dead  drummer's  coats. 
The  garment  was  not  black. 

"What  are  you  doing  there?"  she  demanded. 
"That  coat  might  answer  for  a  horse-race,  not  a 
funeral." 


THE   CRUCIBLE  321 

The  man  had  a  glib  answer  ready. 

"I  took  it  down  to  look  behind,"  he  said.  "The 
letters  fell  out.'* 

She  doubted  his  word  and,  walking  to  the  closet, 
made  a  selection  from  the  more  sober  wear. 

"Take  these,"  she  ordered. 

He  thanked  her,  gathered  the  clothing  together, 
and  left  the  room ;  and  she  heard  the  hall  door  close 
after  him  while  she  lingered  a  moment  to  replace  the 
things  his  rummaging  had  disturbed.  Coming  out 
herself,  the  first  object  to  meet  her  eye  was  a  telltale 
bit  of  cloth  protruding  from  the  umbrella-rack,  into 
which,  she  promptly  discovered,  the  supposed  under- 
taker's assistant  had  stuffed  every  article  she  had 
given  him.  The  sight  unnerved  her,  and  she  sought 
Amy  in  the  parlor  and  told  her  what  she  had  seen. 

"Don't  let  people  in  here,"  she  warned.  "The 
man  was,  of  course,  a  reporter.  No  experienced  de- 
tective would  have  left  the  clothes  behind." 

Amy  plucked  at  her  throat  as  if  stifled. 

"What  did  he  w-want?"  she  chattered.  "What 
did  he  want  ?" 

"Scandal,  probably." 

"  You  think  so  ? "  whispered  the  girl,  ghastly  white. 
"You  think  so  ?  You  don't  suppose  he  came  because 
—  because  he  suspects  — " 

"Suspects  whom  ?" 

"Me !"  she  wailed,  her  cry  trembling  to  a  shriek. 
"Me!  Me!  Me!  I  did  it,  Jean.  I  shot  him.  I 
killed  Fred.  I'm  the  one.  I  — " 


322  THE   CRUCIBLE 

Jean  clapped  a  hand  over  her  mouth. 

"  Hush  ! "  she  implored.     "  You're  mad  ! " 

Amy  tore  herself  free  and  dropped  huddled  to  the 
floor. 

"I'm  not  mad.  I  wish  I  were.  They'd  only  lock 
me  up,  if  I  were  mad.  Now  they'll  kill  me,  too." 

Jean  shook  her  roughly. 

"Stop!"  she  commanded.  "Some  one  might 
overhear  and  believe  you.  Don't  say  such  things. 
It's  dangerous." 

Amy  threw  back  her  head  with  a  repetition  of  her 
awful  laugh. 

"You  don't  believe  me!"  she  cried.  "I'll  make 
you  believe  me.  Listen:  He  came  home  last  night 
after  you  left.  You  hadn't  been  gone  ten  minutes 
when  he  came.  He'd  been  drinking,  but  he  was  good- 
natured,  and  I  thought  I  would  speak  to  him  myself. 
It  didn't  seem  as  if  I  could  wait  for  you  to  speak  to 
him,  Jean.  I  thought  I  could  manage  it  —  he  was 
so  good-natured  —  and  so  I  asked  him  to  make  me 
an  honest  woman.  I  never  mentioned  the  baby  - 
then !  And  I  wasn't  cross  or  mean  with  him.  I 
asked  him  as  nice  as  I  knew  how.  But  he  wouldn't 
listen  —  it  was  the  drink  in  him  —  and  he  struck  me. 
Fred  never  struck  me  before  in  his  life.  He  was 
always  such  a  gentleman.  It  was  the  drink  in  him 
made  him  strike  me.  After  that  I  went  into  the  bed- 
room and  cried,  and  I  heard  him  go  to  the  sideboard 
and  pour  out  more  whisky.  He  did  it  twice.  By 
and  by  he  came  into  the  hall  and  took  his  hat,  and 


THE    CRUCIBLE  323 

I  called  to  him  and  asked  him  not  to  go  out  again. 
I  said  I  was  sorry  for  bothering  him ;  but  he  went  out 
just  the  same.  Then  I  followed.  I  knew,  I  don't 
know  how,  but  I  knew  he  was  going  to  Stella's, 
and  it  didn't  seem,  after  all  I'd  been  through,  I  could 
stand  for  it.  Sure  enough,  he  turned  down  the 
avenue  toward  that  flat  of  hers  I  told  you  about,  with 
me  after  him  keeping  on  the  other  side.  I  lagged 
behind  a  little  when  he  reached  Stella's  street,  for  it 
was  lighter  by  her  door  than  on  the  avenue,  and  when 
I  got  around  the  corner  he  wasn't  anywhere  to  be 
seen,  and  I  knew  for  certain  he'd  gone  in  at  her  num- 
ber. I'd  been  trembling  all  over  up  to  then,  but  now 
I  felt  bold  as  a  lion,  I  was  so  mad,  and  I  marched 
straight  up  to  the  house  myself.  I  decided  I  wouldn't 
ring  her  bell  —  it's  just  one  of  those  common  flat- 
houses  without  an  elevator  —  but  somebody  else's, 
and  then,  after  the  catch  was  pulled,  go  up  and  take 
them  by  surprise. 

"I  was  half  running  when  I  came  to  the  steps, 
and  before  I  could  stop  myself,  or  hide,  or  do  anything, 
I  banged  right  into  Fred,  who  hadn't  been  able  to 
get  in  at  all  and  was  coming  away.  His  face  was 
terrible  when  he  saw  who  it  was,  but  I  wasn't  afraid 
of  him  any  more  and  told  him  he'd  got  to  hear  some- 
thing now  that  would  bring  him  to  his  senses,  if  any- 
thing could.  He  saw  I  meant  business  and  said,  'Oh, 
well,  spit  it  out!'  But  just  then  some  people  came 
along  and  walked  close  behind  us  all  the  way  to  the 
corner.  The  avenue  was  full  of  people,  too,  for  the 


324  THE   CRUCIBLE 

show  at  that  little  concert-hall  near  the  park  entrance 
was  just  over,  so  we  crossed  into  the  park  to  be  by 
ourselves.  We  were  quite  a  way  in  before  I  spoke, 
for  I  was  thinking  what  to  say,  and  finally  when  Fred 
said  he  wasn't  going  a  step  farther,  I  up  and  told  him 
about  the  baby.  He  said  that  was  a  likely  story  and 
started  to  pull  away,  and  then  —  then  I  took  out  the 
pistol.  It  was  Fred's  six-shooter;  he'd  kept  it  in 
the  top  bureau  drawer  ever  since  the  last  scare  about 
burglars,  and  I  caught  it  up  when  I  followed  him  out. 
I  didn't  mean  it  for  him.  I  only  meant  to  shoot  my- 
self, if  he  wouldn't  do  right  by  me  when  he'd  heard  the 
truth.  But  he  thought  I  wanted  to  kill  him,  and  he 
grabbed  hold  of  my  arm  to  get  it  away.  Then, 
somehow,  all  of  a  sudden  it  was  done,  and  there  he 
was  lying  across  the  path  with  his  head  in  the  grass. 
I  don't  know  how  long  I  stood  there,  or  why  I  didn't 
kill  myself.  I  ought  to  have  shot  myself  right  there. 
But  I  only  stood,  numb-like,  till  all  at  once  I  got 
frightened  and  began  to  run.  I  ran  along  by  the 
lake  and  threw  the  revolver  in  the  water,  and  went  out 
of  the  park  by  another  entrance  and  came  back  here. 
Nobody  saw  me  go  out;  nobody  saw  me  come  in. 
The  elevator  boy  goes  home  at  twelve  o'clock.  I 
guess  you  believe  me  now,  don't  you  ?" 

Jean  froze  before  the  horror  of  it.  While  she 
mechanically  soothed  the  hapless  creature  who,  her 
secret  out,  had  relapsed  into  ungovernable  hysteria 
wherein  Fred's  praises  alternated  with  shuddering 
terror  of  the  future,  her  own  thoughts  crowded  in  a 


THE   CRUCIBLE  325 

disorder  almost  as  chaotic.  She  faced  a  crime,  and 
yet  no  crime.  Must  she  bid  Amy  give  herself  up  to 
the  law  ?  Must  this  frail  girl  undergo  the  torture  of 
imprisonment  and  trial  for  having  served  as  little 
more  than  the  passive  tool  of  circumstance  ?  If  they 
held  their  peace,  the  mystery  might  never  be  cleared. 
Would  justice  suffer  greatly  by  such  silence  ?  But 
Amy  would  suffer  !  The  fear  of  discovery  —  the  fear 
Jean  herself  knew  so  well  —  would  dog  her  to  her 
grave.  To  trust  the  law  was  the  frank  course,  but 
would  the  law  —  blind,  clumsy,  fallible  Law  whose 
heavy  hand  had  all  but  spoiled  her  own  life  —  would 
the  law  believe  Amy  had  gone  out,  carrying  a  weapon, 
without  intent  to  do  murder  ?  The  dilemma  was  too 
cruel. 

The  door-bell  bored  itself  into  her  consciousness, 
and  she  went  out  to  confront  more  reporters. 

"Mrs.  Chapman  is  too  ill  to  see  you,"  she  said 
curtly. 

"  But  it's  you  we  want  to  see,"  returned  one,  whose 
face  she  recalled  from  the  earlier  invasion.  "There 
are  new  developments,  and  we'd  like  to  have  your 
comment.  It's  of  public  interest,  Mrs.  Atwood." 

Her  anger  flamed  out  against  them. 

"What  have  I  to  do  with  your  public?"  she  de- 
manded. "  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  it." 

"  But  you  consented  to  an  interview  this  morning," 
rejoined  the  spokesman  for  the  group.  "Why  do 
you  object  to  another?" 

"I  consented  to  an  interview !" 


326  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"Here  you  are,"  he  said,  producing  one  of  the  more 
sensational  newspapers.  "'The  beautiful  wife  of 
the  well-known  illustrator,  Francis  Craig  Atwood, 
has  been  with  the  heart-broken  little  bride  since 
early  morning.  Mrs.  Atwood  and  Mrs.  Chapman 
were  schoolgirl  chums  whose  friendship  has  endured 
to  be  a  solace  in  this  crushing  hour.  Mrs.  Atwood 
brokenly  expressed  her  horror  at  the  catastrophe 
and  added  one  or  two  touching  details  concerning  the 
Chapmans'  ideal  married  life.  Their  wedding  - 

Jean  seized  the  cub  reporter's  "  story "  and  read 
it  for  herself.  The  drummer  shone  a  paragon  of  re- 
finement in  the  light  of  her  friendship  and  Craig's,  for 
Atwood  was  not  neglected;  two  paragraphs,  indeed, 
were  given  over  to  a  resume  of  his  artistic  career. 

Tears  of  mortification  sprang  to  her  eyes. 

"What  an  outrage!"  she  exclaimed.  "Mr.  At- 
wood has  never  seen  these  people,  never  set  foot  in 
this  building !  I  myself  met  this  unfortunate  man 
but  once  in  my  life  ! " 

The  group  pricked  up  its  ears. 

"We  shall  be  very  glad  to  publish  your  denial," 
assured  the  spokesman. 

"Oh,  don't  publish  anything,"  she  cried.  "Drop 
us  out  of  it  altogether,  I  beg  of  you  !" 

"  But  in  the  light  of  the  new  developments,  it  would 
be  only  just  to  you  and  Mr.  Atwood,"  he  persisted. 

"What  developments  ?" 

"The  revelations  concerning  Chapman's  —  er  — 
irregular  mode  of  life.  His  former  wife  —  she  lives 


THE   CRUCIBLE  327 

in  Jersey  City  —  has  laid  certain  information  before 
the  police.  She  seems  to  care  for  him  still,  after  a 
fashion.  She  only  heard  this  morning  of  his  remar- 
riage, though  she  met  and  talked  with  him  day  before 
yesterday." 

Jean's  hand  sought  the  wall. 

"What  does  she  know?" 

"The  police  won't  disclose.  But  they  say  her 
information,  taken  with  another  clew  that's  come  into 
their  hands,  will  lead  shortly  to  an  arrest.  Shall  we 
publish  the  denial,  Mrs.  Atwood  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered;   "yes." 

As  she  closed  the  door,  Amy  tottered  down  the 
hall. 

"I  heard!"  she  gasped.  "I  heard  all  they  said. 
The  police  —  the  police  will  come  next !  They've 
found  out  I'm  not  Fred's  wife.  I'll  be  shamed 
before  everybody.  They'll  suspect  me  first  of  all. 
They'll  find  out  everything.  You  heard  what  they 
said  about  a  clew  ?  When  they  get  hold  of  a  clew,  they 
get  everything !  They'll  take  me  to  the  Tombs  — 
the  Tombs!  Hark!" 

The  fretful  bell  rang  again. 

"The  police!"    chattered  Amy.     "The  police!" 

The  same  fear  gripped  Jean,  but  she  mustered 
strength  to  push  the  girl  into  the  bedroom  and  shut 
the  door;  and  then,  with  sinking  knees,  went  to 
answer  the  summons. 


XXX 

No  uniformed  agent  of  pursuing  justice  confronted 
her;  only  the  face  of  him  she  loved  best;  and  the 
great  uplifting  wave  of  relief  cast  her  breathless  in 
Craig's  arms. 

"Come  away,"  he  begged,  his  answering  clasp  the 
witness  and  the  seal  of  their  reconciliation.  "Come 
away." 

"  Craig ! "   she  whispered.     "  Craig ! " 

"I  only  just  learned  where  you  were.  A  reporter 
came  to  the  studio,  showed  me  his  paper — " 

"Falsehoods  !     They  perverted  my  words  — " 

"  I  knew,  I  knew.  I'm  the  one  to  blame,  not  you. 
If  I'd  gone  home,  stayed  home,  you  would  never 
have  come  here.  Forgive  me,  Jean.  I've  been  a 
fool." 

"Hush,"  she  said,  laying  a  hand  upon  his  lips. 
"We  were  both  wrong.  But  I  must  have  come  to 
Amy.  After  what  she  told  me  last  night,  there  was 
no  choice.  You'll  understand  when  I  explain.  It's 
ghastly  clear." 

"  But  come  away  first.  Don't  give  anyone  a  chance 
to  ferret  out  your  life,  Jean.  Why  should  you  stay 
here  now  ? " 

A  low,  convulsive  moan  issued  from  the  bedroom. 
Jean  sprang  to  the  door. 

328 


THE   CRUCIBLE  329 

"Amy!"  she  called.  "Don't  be  frightened.  It's 
only  Craig.  Do  you  hear  me  ?  It  was  Craig  who 
rang.  I'll  come  to  you  soon." 

Atwood  followed  to  the  little  parlor. 

"You  see  ?"  she  said. 

"But  there  must  be  some  one  else,  some  other 
woman  — " 

"There  is  no  one  who  knows  what  I  know.  You 
must  hear  it,  too,  Craig.  It's  more  than  I  can  face 
alone.  You  must  think  for  me,  help  me."  And 
she  poured  the  whole  petrifying  truth  into  his  ears. 

"She  must  give  herself  up,"  he  said,  at  last. 

"But — "  And  the  dilemma  of  moral  and  legal 
guilt  plagued  her  again. 

He  brushed  her  tender  casuistry  aside. 

"The  law  must  deal  with  such  doubts,"  he  an- 
swered. "We  must  help  her  face  it,  help  her  see  that 
delay  only  counts  against  her.  She  must  tell  her 
story  before  they  come  at  the  facts  without  her." 

"She  believes  they  suspect  already.  They've 
found  out  something  about  that  wretched  man's  life, 
—  the  reporters  don't  say  what,  —  and  she  lies  in 
that  room  shaking  with  terror  at  every  ring  of  the 
bell.  We  thought  you  were  the  police." 

"We  must  help  her  face  it,"  he  repeated.  "I  will 
drive  her  to  police  headquarters." 

"Not  you,  Craig.  You  must  not.  The  papers 
shall  not  drag  you  into  this  again.  I  will  go  with 
her." 

"  Isn't  your  name  mine  ?    You  see  it  makes  no 


330  THE   CRUCIBLE 

difference.  I'll  not  allow  you  to  go  through  this 
alone.  I've  let  you  meet  too  much  alone.  We'll 
talk  to  Amy  together,  if  you  think  best." 

Jean's  glance  fell  on  Grimes's  gilt  clock. 

"Amy  has  tasted  nothing,  and  it's  nearly  noon," 
she  said.  "I  must  make  coffee  or  something  to  give 
her  strength.  Wait  till  she  has  eaten." 

She  started  for  the  kitchen,  but  brought  up,  white- 
faced,  at  the  recurring  summons  of  the  bell.  Their 
eyes  met  in  panic.  Were  they  too  late  ?  The  ring 
was  repeated  while  they  questioned.  Jean  took  a 
faltering  step  toward  the  door,  listening  for  an  out- 
burst from  the  bedroom;  but  Amy  seemed  not  to 
hear.  Craig  stepped  before  her  into  the  hall. 

"Let  me  answer  it,"  he  said. 

Then,  before  either  could  act,  a  key  explored  the 
lock,  and  Paul  Bartlett's  anxious  face  peered  through 
the  opening.  He  started  at  sight  of  them,  but  came 
forward  with  an  ejaculation  of  relief. 

"I  remembered  I  had  a  key,"  he  explained.     "It 
was  so  still  I  thought  something  had  gone  wrong. 
Where's  Amy?" 

Jean  signed  toward  the  bedroom,  and  the  three 
tiptoed  into  the  parlor  and  shut  the  door.  An  awk- 
ward silence  rested  upon  them  for  an  instant.  Jean's 
thoughts  raced  back  to  her  last  meeting  with  the  den- 
tist in  this  room,  and  she  knew  that  Paul  could  be 
scarcely  less  the  prey  of  his  memories.  Atwood  him- 
self, divining  something  of  what  such  a  reunion  meant, 
was  stricken  with  a  share  of  their  embarrassment. 


THE   CRUCIBLE  331 

Paul  pulled  himself  together  first. 

"I  came  to  help  Amy,  if  I  could,"  he  said  to  Jean; 
"and  also  to  see  you.  I've  read  the  papers,  and  I 
thought"  -  he  hesitated  lamely  —  "I  thought  some- 
body ought  to  take  your  place.  It's  not  pleasant  to 
be  dragged  into  a  murder  case  —  not  pleasant  for  a 
lady,  I  mean,"  he  corrected  himself  hastily.  "/ 
don't  mind.  Mrs.  St.  Aubyn  won't  mind,  either. 
I've  'phoned  her  —  she  always  liked  Amy,  you  know 
—  and  she's  coming  soon.  You  needn't  wait.  You 
mustn't  be  expected  to  —  to  —  oh,  for  God's  sake, 
sir,"  he  broke  off,  wheeling  desperately  upon  Atwood, 
"take  your  wife  away  !" 

Jean's  eyes  blurred  with  sudden  tears,  which  fell 
unrestrained  when  Craig's  chivalry  met  the  dentist's 
halfway. 

"Now  /  know  you  for  the  true  man  Jean  has 
praised,"  he  said,  gripping  Paul's  hand.  "But  I 
can't  take  her  away.  She  has  a  responsibility  —  we 
both  have  a  responsibility  it's  impossible  to  shirk. 
Tell  him,  Jean!" 

The  dentist  squared  his  shoulders  in  the  old  way, 
when  she  ceased. 

"I'll  see  that  Amy  reaches  headquarters,"  he  said 
doggedly.  "Neither  of  you  need  go.  There  isn't 
the  slightest  necessity.  I'm  her  old  friend,  the  lessee 
of  this  flat :  who  would  be  more  likely  to  act  for  her  ? 
You  convince  her  that  she  must  toe  the  mark  —  I 
can't  undertake  that  part;  and  then,  the  sooner  you 
leave,  the  better." 


332  THE   CRUCIBLE      . 

Atwood  turned  irresolutely  toward  the  window 
and  threw  up  the  shade  as  if  his  physical  being  craved 
light.  Jean  met  the  straightforward  eyes. 

"Why  should  you  shoulder  it,  Paul  ?" 

Bartlett  shot  a  look  at  Atwood,  who  nervously 
drummed  the  pane,  his  gaze  fixed  outward ;  and  then, 
with  a  sweeping  gesture,  invoked  the  silent  argu- 
ment of  the  room. 

"I  guess  you  know,"  he  added  simply. 

Her  face  softened  with  ineffable  tenderness. 

"I'll  tell  Amy  you  are  here,"  she  said. 

The  men  heard  her  pass  down  the  hall  and  knock; 
wait,  knock  again,  calling  Amy's  name;  wait  once 
more ;  and  then  return. 

"Shall  we  let  her  sleep  while  she  can  ?"  she  whis- 
pered. "It's  a  hideous  thing  that  she  must  meet." 

Atwood's  look  questioned  the  dentist,  whose  reply 
was  to  brush  by  them  both  and  assault  Amy's  door. 

"  Amy ! "   he  shouted.     "  Amy  ! " 

They  held  their  breath.  Back  in  the  parlor  the 
gilt  clock  ticked  like  a  midsummer  mad  insect;  the 
cries  of  newsboys  rose  muffled  from  the  street ;  even 
a  drip  of  water  sounded  from  some  leaky  kitchen 
tap ;  but  from  the  bedroom  came  nothing. 

Jean  tried  the  knob. 

"Locked!" 

The  dentist  laid  his  shoulder  to  the  woodwork, 
put  forth  his  strength,  and  the  door  burst  in  with  an 
impetus  that  carried  him  headlong;  but  before  either 
could  follow  he  had  recovered  himself  and  turned  to 
block  the  way. 


THE   CRUCIBLE  333 

"Keep  back,  Jean,"  he  commanded  sharply. 
"Keep  back!" 

Their  suspense  was  brief.  Almost  immediately 
he  came  out,  closed  the  door  gently  after  him,  and 
held  up  a  red-labeled  vial. 

"Carbolic  acid  !"   he  said  hoarsely. 

Jean  uttered  a  sharp  cry. 

"A  doctor!"   she  exclaimed. 

Paul  shook  his  head. 

"I  am  doctor  enough  to  know  death.  Atwood, 
get  your  wife  away." 

"But  now  — "  Jean  resisted. 

"Go,  go!"  he  commanded,  driving  them  before 
him.  "Mrs.  St.  Aubyn  will  do  what  a  woman  can. 
I  will  attend  to  the  police.  You  left  for  rest,  believ- 
ing her  asleep.  I  suspected  suicide,  and  broke 
down  the  door.  That's  our  story.  Go  while  you 
can." 

They  went  out  as  in  a  dream,  striking  away  at 
random  when  they  issued  on  the  street,  seeking  only 
to  shun  the  still  idling  curious,  grateful  beyond  words 
for  release,  avid  for  the  pure,  vital  air.  Presently, 
in  some  quarter,  they  knew  not  where,  a  cab-driver 
hailed  them,  and  they  passively  entered  his  hansom 
and  as  passively  sat  dependent  on  his  superior  will. 

"Where  to  ?"   asked  the  man,  impatiently. 

Atwood  shook  himself  awake.  "The  Copley 
Studios,"  he  answered.  "  Do  you  know  the  building  ? 
It's  near  — 

The  closing  trap  clipped  his  directions,  and  they 


334  THE   CRUCIBLE 

drove  away.  They  gave  no  heed  to  their  course  till, 
passing  a  park  entrance,  they  came  full  upon  a  knot 
of  urchins  and  nursemaids  clustered  between  lake 
and  drive. 

"That's  where  the  Chapman  murder  took  place,'* 
volunteered  the  driver. 

Jean  shut  her  eyes. 

"This  way  of  all  ways  !" 

"It  is  behind  us  now,"  Craig  comforted.  "It's  all 
behind  us  now." 

Neither  spoke  again  till  they  reached  the  studio, 
and  a  porter  announced  the  arrival  of  several  trunks. 

"They're  yours,  Jean,"  Atwood  said.  "I  ordered 
them  sent  here  when  Julie  telephoned  for  instructions. 
I  realize  that  there  is  no  going  back.  She  admits 
that  she  did  you  a  wrong  —  she  will  tell  you  so  her- 
self; but  that  doesn't  alter  matters.  We  must 
live  our  own  lives.  To-night  we'll  go  away  for  a 
time.  In  the  mountains  or  by  the  sea,  whichever 
you  will,  we'll  plan  for  the  future.  It's  time  the  air- 
castles  were  made  real." 

He  ordered  a  luncheon  from  a  neighboring  restau- 
rant, forced  her  to  eat,  and  then  to  rest.  She  said 
that  sleep  was  impossible,  and  that  she  must  repack 
against  their  journey;  but  her  eyelids  grew  heavy 
even  while  she  protested,  and  she  was  just  drowsily 
aware  that  he  threw  over  her  some  studio  drapery 
which  emitted  a  spicy  oriental  scent. 

It  was  a  dreamless  sleep  until  just  before  she 
woke,  when  she  shivered  again  under  the  obsession 


THE   CRUCIBLE  335 

of  Amy's  door-bell.  The  studio  furnishings  delivered 
her  from  the  delusion,  but  a  bell  rang  on.  Where 
was  Craig  ?  Then  her  eye  fell  upon  a  scrawl,  trans- 
fixed to  her  pillow  by  a  hatpin,  which  told  her  that 
he  had  gone  to  arrange  for  their  departure;  and  she 
roused  herself  to  answer  the  door.  Here,  for  an  in- 
stant, the  dream  seemed  still  to  haunt,  for  the  caller 
who  greeted  her  was  the  reporter  of  the  morning  who 
had  taken  her  denial. 

"I'm  right  sorry  to  bother  you  again,  Mrs.  At- 
wood,"  he  apologized.  "I'm  looking  for  your  hus- 
band." 

"Mr.  Atwood  is  out." 

"Could  I  see  him  later,  perhaps  ?  It's  about  five- 
thirty  now.  Would  six  o'clock  suit  ?" 

"Why  do  you  annoy  him?"  she  asked  wearily. 
"  I  told  you  that  he  has  nothing  to  do  with  this  awful 
affair." 

"The  public  thinks  he  has,  and  in  a  way,  through 
your  knowing  Mrs.  Chapman,  it's  true.  Anyhow, 
I'm  authorized  to  make  him  a  proposition  with  dollars 
in  it.  Our  Sunday  editor  is  willing  to  let  him  name 
his  own  figure  for  a  column  interview  and  a  sketch 
of  the  Wilkes  girl,  in  any  medium  he  likes,  which  he 
can  knock  off  from  our  own  photographs.  We  got 
some  rattling  good  snap-shots  just  as  she  was  taken 
into  custody." 

Jean  stared  blankly  into  his  enthusiastic  face. 

"Taken  into  custody?"  she  said.  "The  Wilkes 
girl !  You  mean  —  on  suspicion  —  of  murder !" 


336  THE   CRUCIBLE 

"Haven't  you  seen  the  afternoon  editions  ?"  cried 
the  man,  incredulously.  "You  don't  say  you  haven't 
heard  about  the  new  figure  in  the  case,  the  Fourteenth 
Street  music-hall  favorite,  Stella  Wilkes !  It  was 
Chapman's  divorced  wife  who  put  the  police  on  the 
scent.  She'd  spotted  them  together,  and  the  janitor 
of  the  Wilkes  girl's  flat-house  identified  Chapman  as 
a  man  who'd  been  running  there  after  her.  Of  course 
by  itself,  that's  no  evidence  of  guilt;  but  they've  un- 
earthed more  than  that.  One  of  the  clever  men  of 
our  staff  got  hold  of  a  letter  which  the  girl  wrote 
Chapman.  The  police  are  holding  it  back,  but  it's  a 
threat  of  some  kind,  and  strong  enough  to  warrant 
them  gathering  her  in  for  the  grand  jury's  considera- 
tion. But  let  me  send  up  a  hallboy  with  the  latest. 
I'll  try  again  at  six  for  Mr.  Atwood." 

Stella  !  Stella  accused  of  the  murder !  She  pressed 
her  hands  to  her  dizzy  head  and  groped  back  to  the 
studio.  Could  fate  devise  a  more  ironic  jest !  Stella, 
wrecker  of  Amy's  happiness,  herself  dragged  down ! 
Then,  her  brain  clearing,  her  personal  responsibility 
overwhelmed  her.  She  alone  had  received  Amy's 
confession.  She  alone  could  vouch  for  Stella's  inno- 
cence. She  must  dip  her  hands  again  into  this  de- 
filing pitch,  endure  more  publicity,  risk  exposure, 
humiliate  Craig  !  And  for  Stella  —  byword  of  Shaw- 
nee  Springs,  fiend  who  had  made  the  refuge  twice  a 
hell,  terror  of  her  struggle  to  live  the  dark  past  down 
—  of  all  human  creatures,  Stella  Wilkes  ! 

But  it  must  be  done.     She  made  herself  ready  for 


THE   CRUCIBLE  337 

the  street  with  benumbed  fingers,  till  the  thought  of 
Craig  again  arrested  her.  Should  she  wait  for  him  ? 

He  entered  as  she  hesitated. 

"Rested,  Jean?"  he  called  cheerily,  delaying  a 
moment  in  the  hall.  "Here  are  your  papers.  The 
boy  said  you  wanted  them."  Then,  from  the  thresh- 
old, "You're  ill !" 

She  caught  one  of  the  newspapers  from  him  and 
struck  it  open.  Its  head-lines  shouted  confirmation 
of  the  reporter's  words. 

"Look!" 

"'Footlight  favorite  .  .  .  damaging  letter  .  .  . 
journalistic  enterprise,'"  he  repeated. 

"You  see  what  it  means  ?" 

"Wait,  wait !"   He  read  on  feverishly  to  the  end. 

Jean  gave  a  last  mechanical  touch  to  her  veil. 

"I  am  going  down  to  police  headquarters  to  tell 
what  I  know,  Craig." 

"No,"  he  cried.  "You  must  not  mix  in  this  again. 
You  shall  not.  There  is  some  better  way.  We 
must  think  it  out.  There  is  Bartlett  —  he  knows  !" 

"Through  me!" 

"I  think  he'd  be  willing  —  no;  that's  folly.  We 
can't  ask  the  man  to  perjure  himself.  We  must  hit 
on  something  else.  You  must  not  be  the  one.  Think 
what  it  might  mean!" 

"I've  thought." 

"They  would  dig  up  the  past  —  all  your  acquaint- 
ance with  Amy.  The  Wilkes  creature's  tongue 
could  never  be  stopped.  She  doesn't  know  now  that 


338  THE   CRUCIBLE 

Mrs.  Atwood  means  Jean  Fanshaw.  She  must  not 
know.  Take  no  rash  step.  We  must  wait,  tempo- 
rize." 

"Temporize  with  an  innocent  person  accused  of 
crime !" 

"They  don't  accuse  her  yet  —  formally.  She  is 
held  —  detained  —  whatever  the  lawyer's  jargon  is. 
She  isn't  convicted.  She  never  will  be.  They  can't 
convict  her  on  one  letter.  —  I  doubt  if  they'll  indict 
her.  Why,  she  may  prove  an  alibi  at  once  !  Wait, 
Jean,  wait!  She's  merely  under  suspicion  of- 

" Murder!"  She  stripped  away  his  sophistries 
with  a  word.  "Isn't  that  enough?  What  of  her 
feelings  while  we  wait  ?  Is  it  nothing  to  be  sus- 
pected of  killing  a  man  ?" 

"What  is  her  reputation  now?     Unspeakable!" 

"  More  reason  that  we  make  it  no  worse.  No,  no, 
Craig;  I  must  do  this  thing  at  any  cost." 

He  threw  out  his  hands  in  impassioned  appeal. 

"Any  cost!  Any  cost!"  he  cried.  "Do  you 
realize  what  you're  saying  ?  Will  you  let  her  rag  of 
a  reputation  weigh  against  your  own,  against  the 
position  you've  fought  for,  against  my  good  name  ? 
If  you  won't  spare  yourself,  spare  me!" 

"  Craig  ! "   she  implored,  "  be  just ! " 

"I  am  only  asking  you  to  wait.  A  night  may 
change  everything.  It  can't  make  her  name  blacker; 
it  may  save  you." 

"Suppose  it  changes  nothing;  suppose  no  alibi 
is  proved;  suppose  they  do  indict!  How  would  my 


THE   CRUCIBLE  339 

delay  look  then  ?  Can't  you  see  that  my  way  is  the 
only  way  ?  Don't  think  I'm  not  counting  the  cost." 
Her  voice  wavered  and  she  shut  her  eyes  against  his 
unnerving  face  which  seemed  to  have  shed  its  boyish- 
ness forever,  against  this  room  which  everywhere  be- 
spoke the  future  she  jeopardized.  "I  do!  I  do ! 
But  we  must  go  —  go  at  once." 

His  face  set  sternly. 

"I  refuse." 

"Craig!" 

"I  refuse.  This  morning,  when  we  had  no  way 
to  turn,  I  was  ready  to  stand  by  you.  But  now  — 
now  I  wash  my  hands  of  it  all.  If  you  go  — " 

Her  face  turned  ashen. 

"If  I  go  ?"   she  repeated. 

"You  go  alone." 

"And  afterward?" 

He  dashed  a  distracted  hand  across  his  forehead 
and  turned  away  without  answer. 

"Yet  I  must  go,"  she  said. 

Before  her  blind  fingers  found  the  outer  door,  he 
was  again  beside  her. 

"You're  right,"  he  owned.  "Forgive  me,  Jean. 
We'll  see  it  through." 

Their  ride  in  the  twilight  seemed  an  excursion  in 
eternity.     Home-going    New    York    met    them    in 
obstructive  millions.     Apparently  they  alone  sought 
the  lower  city.     From  zone  to  zone  they  descended  - 
luxury,  shabby  gentility,  squalor  succeeding  in  turn 


340  THE   CRUCIBLE 

—  till  their  destination  loomed  a  dread  tangible  reality. 
It  was  fittingly  seated  here,  Jean  felt,  where  life's 
dregs  drifted  uppermost,  sin  was  a  commonplace, 
arrest  a  diversion.  Would  not  such  as  these  glory  in 
the  deed  she  found  so  hard  ?  Would  not  the  brain 
beneath  that  "picture"  hat,  the  sable  plumes  of 
which  —  jaunty,  insolent,  triumphant  —  floated  the 
center  of  a  sidewalk  throng,  envy  her  the  publicity 
from  which  she  shrank  ?  Then,  as  the  ribald  crowd 
passed  and  the  garish  blaze  of  a  concert-saloon  lit  the 
woman's  face,  she  threw  herself  back  in  the  shadow 
with  a  sharp  cry. 

"Look,  Craig!     Look!" 

Atwood  craned  from  the  cab,  which  a  dray  had 
blocked,  but  saw  only  agitated  backs  as  the  saloon 
swallowed  up  the  pavement  idol. 

A  policeman  grinned  sociably  from  the  curb. 

"Stella  Wilkes,"  he  explained.  "Chesty,  ain't 
she  ?  She  was  pretty  wilted,  though,  when  they  ran 
her  in.  I  saw  her  come." 

Craig's  hand  convulsively  gripped  Jean's. 

"They've  let  her  go?"  he  questioned.  "She's 
free?" 

"Sure  —  an'  callin'  on  her  friends.  Hadn't  you 
heard  ?  Mrs.  Chapman  left  a  note  ownin'  up.  If 
they'd  found  it  sooner,  this  party  would  have  had  a 
pleasanter  afternoon.  Still,  I  guess  she's  plenty 
satisfied.  They  say  a  vaudeville  house  has  offered 
her  five  hundred  a  week.  She'd  better  cinch  the 
deal  to-night.  It  will  all  be  forgotten  to-morrow." 


THE   CRUCIBLE  34! 

Atwood  strained  the  white-faced  figure  to  his 
breast. 

"You  heard  him,  Jean?  He's  right.  It  will 
be  forgotten  to-morrow." 

From  that  dear  shelter  she,  too,  foresaw  a  kindlier 
future. 

"To-morrow,"  she  echoed. 


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